


No Peace

by Zedrobber



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Come-eating - Freeform, F/M, Frottage, Knotting, Violence, Werewolf AU, Werewolf Cock Sucking, bestiality TW just in case, dub con, dub-con but not really, graphic descriptions of transformation, werewolf athos, werewolf cunnilingus, werewolf hunter milady, werewolf/human sex eventually, when i say human/werewolf sex imean as a werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 46,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milady is a werewolf hunter, and she married Athos to find the werewolf in his family. Turns out she chose the wrong one to kill.<br/>Follows series timeline/events but Athos is a werewolf. As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

5 years previously

 

Marriage had seemed like the obvious way to infiltrate the family; an old, well established line, with an estate that covered miles of rolling fields, and the usual ancient curse attached to it. A once-in-a-generation kind of curse, standard issue. Trouble was, she wasn’t _entirely_ sure which of the two sons the curse was active in for this generation, and it was her duty to only eliminate the right one. Choose the other, and her whole mission was compromised; she would be exposed as the hunter, she would be in danger of attracting unwanted attention from the _other_ son, and worst of all, an innocent would be dead for no purpose. The Guild were not above sacrificing innocent people for the greater good, but even they avoided it unless absolutely necessary. And though the Guild had dissolved many years past, leaving Hunters of all talents and ages to wander the streets alone, the morals instilled in her still held true. Mostly.

 

So she insinuated herself into his life- the older one, because if he were to die mysteriously, she would at least inherit something. She chose her disguise; the perfect little peasant girl, the kind that no man would be able to resist. She gave him shy smiles across the church pews, perfectly aware that she was standing in a pool of golden sunlight, her white dress almost glowing, the crucifix around her neck glittering just above her cleavage and drawing the eye of several men in the rows beside her. She ignored them and concentrated on her target, the young man who stood straight and silent across the way.

It worked like a charm; he could barely keep his eyes from her, stuttering his way through his prayers and giving her the most comically wide-eyed looks when he thought she wasn’t watching him. She saw him hesitate every time as though desperate to catch her eye, and smiled secretly to herself at his foolishness. Just like a man.

He was handsome enough thought, she mused; if he _wasn’t_ the beast, then at least she would have a pleasant diversion for a few months while she hunted. He had the bluest eyes and a little scar over his lip that made him look permanently wryly amused- and from his almost open-mouthed gaping, she suspected he had never known a woman before.

_Perfect and ripe for the plucking._

 

His shyness had only intensified when he finally dared to speak to her after the service, his face flushed and his expression terribly overwrought. She fought to keep her own face calm, her eyes as earnest and wide as possible, pretending to be the simple girl she was sure he would want. She flirted gently and giggled at his ridiculous attempts at humour, taking his arm when he offered to walk her home and even managing to blush prettily as though thrilled to be asked.

 _If he is the one with the curse, it’s wasted on him,_ she thought later when he had gallantly walked her to her apartments and left with a bow and nothing more demanded from her.  _Sweet, but not too bright._

She did not trust men. Nothing in her life had given her cause to, and this one- _Athos_ \- was no different. He could play the sweet, kind soul all he wanted; it was what he turned into at night that interested her, in the most literal sense of the word. Either he, or his brother Thomas, was a werewolf. It wasn’t their fault, of course- the curse didn’t discriminate between good or bad, old or young- but it was a fact, and it meant whoever it was had to die.

 

Her life had not been easy; dragged up in the Court of Miracles, she had thieved and tricked and blackmailed her way to her teens before joining the Hunter’s Guild. They offered security, money, and a profession – and to her, a girl with no name, no family and no prospects, they offered a home. She had joined them willingly, having nothing to leave behind and nowhere to go. They trained her to dispatch werewolves, vampires, zombies- anything they deemed dangerous to the human world, anything that killed indiscriminately and caused destruction and fear. She learned to fight, and to find the heart on a vampire with one sure blow. She learned to make her own silver musket balls when none were available. She learned to track and to hide her scent. She became almost invisible to the outside world, able to move through it with infinite precision.

 

And so here she was, years later, tracking a werewolf that had killed innocent people already and was only just beginning.

 

They married as soon as his family could be persuaded; his brother suspicious and aloof, his parents distant and unhappy that their oldest son wanted to marry a penniless girl from a village they’d never heard of. She played her part as well as she could and was rewarded with a grudging acceptance from the family. But she never stopped watching, observing, waiting and biding her time. Thomas seemed the most likely- he was vicious by nature, untrustworthy and unnerving to be around. She caught him watching her with predatory focus more than once before the wedding, and it only intensified once her and Athos were officially married. But she had no proof; nothing concrete, anyway, and in a family as old and as established as this one, the whole lot of them would be pulling together to hide the curse from outsiders. She knew that the curse would have become evident at around 16-18 years old- usually, anyway. Occasionally there were “late bloomers” so to speak, but they were both rare and particularly dangerous due to the lack of time to learn control before being thrust into adult society.

This werewolf had only been killing for a year, perhaps two; Thomas was twenty and perfectly in line with the age range. But that was all she had, and she had to be sure.

 

She waited and she watched, and somehow in the midst of the tension and the mission, she fell in love with Athos, with his quiet, gentle nature and his utter devotion to her. When he looked at her with those eyes so wide and honest, she felt her heart break a little, felt her stomach flutter and her breath catch in her throat in a way she had been utterly unprepared for. When he touched her, his hands reverent and trembling on her skin, she felt herself melt under him. He was gentle and careful with her in a way that no man ever had been- not that she had ever lain with a man by choice. 

 

She became surer with each day that it must be Thomas who had the curse; Athos seemed so utterly incapable of violence that the thought was ridiculous and revolting to her. Thomas, however, was more suspicious than ever, watching her with narrowed eyes whenever they were in a room together and barely speaking to her unless forced to.

Looking back, she realised that it was her love for Athos that blinded her to the truth of it, but in the moment, in those months of almost bliss where she knew she was loved by a man who didn’t want to hurt her, who demanded nothing of her but her own happiness and who she could almost relax around, she couldn’t see further than the two of them, Thomas the obvious candidate for the beast. She became careless.

 

Of course, the trouble was that not all monsters are supernatural.

 

She thought she had her proof, finally; Thomas had been gone for three days, Athos unable or unwilling to explain his whereabouts, just giving her a confused look when she asked as if bewildered as to why she would want to know.

 

On his return, she cornered him in an empty room, confronting him with all of the assurance and calm authority that her training had instilled. He wasn’t surprised; amused, he circled her, his teeth bared in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “A hunter? I knew there was something about you,” he hissed, eyes dark, and somehow he was very close, suddenly, his fingers tight around her arm, holding her painfully. He shoved her, forcing her against the wall, and she felt his breath on her face, warm and foul. Her instinct kicked in, and she reached for the knife in her boot, driving it up into his stomach with one sure strike. It was a silver blade, specially forged at the Guild, and her aim was true, Thomas staggering back, laughing and holding his wound as it gushed blood between his fingers. She frowned; it was taking too long. A werewolf was supposed to die quickly once wounded by a silver weapon, and Thomas was still standing, albeit swaying and unsteady.

“I’m not the werewolf,” he said through bloody lips, still grinning at her monstrously. “I’m just a man. Pity-“ he coughed, blood shining wetly on his bottom lip. “I’d have had you, you know-“

He died finally, collapsing onto the floor in a puddle of his own blood, already beginning to stink. She panicked suddenly, turning from him, her whole world crashing down around her; if he wasn’t the beast, then Athos was. And if Athos was, she had to kill him. Now. Before she could hesitate further, before she lost her resolve.

 

But her heart rebelled. How could Athos be a werewolf? How could that gentle, sweet man be a monster, how could she have ignored the signs, how could she possibly kill the man she loved?

 _He’s not a man,_ her training told her, but she knew he had to be- he couldn’t be-

“Murderer!” came the cry, and she looked up to see Catherine, Thomas’ fiancée, staring at her wild eyed. The knife was still in her hand. She let it drop, sightlessly staring at the floor, trying to think of a way out of this.

But there was none, and it was Athos who came running, was Athos who looked at her in mounting horror as he realised who and what she was, his nostrils flaring and his eyes terror-stricken.

And full of guilt, the truth written plainly on his face now that she was actually looking for it. His habit of smelling everything, in fact his ridiculously _heightened_ sense of smell should have been a huge red flag. Flashes of her blind idiocy came back to her one after the other; his disappearances "to the villages" several days a month, his habit of walking away from an argument rather than becoming emotional about it, the occasions where he would graze her throat with his teeth when they were making love, dangerously close to her jugular and with no explanation he could articulate when he bit down non-too gently- they were all warning signs that she should have seen, and that she had ignored in total faith that Athos was not a monster but the man she loved.

 

“You lied to me,” he said, and he sounded lost and broken, as though she were the monster and not him. She tried hard to imagine him ripping someone apart, tried to envision his face contorted in fury, and failed, seeing only his kisses and his crooked smile even as that same mouth was pronouncing her a dead woman.

 

\--

 

Athos couldn’t watch her hang, too consumed by self-pity and misery and fury at everyone including himself. He told himself he had no choice but to sentence her to death; even if she hadn’t killed his brother, the family secret had to be kept, and even if he didn’t care about that, she would never stop until she destroyed him and the rest of his family. They had been told stories of hunters as children; how they burned whole families to death if they thought one of them was a werewolf, how they cheated and lied their way into your home just so that they could tear it apart from the inside. He had never thought it would happen to him.

_She never loved me,_ was all he could think as he watched the noose being placed around her neck. He had loved her- more than he could ever have imagined possible, in truth. Had trusted her, had allowed her into his home. It was his fault Thomas was dead.

 

 _She only married me because she wanted to kill her monster._  

 

He turned away from her before she died. He couldn’t bear to watch her turn blue, to see that beautiful face swollen and choking. He could smell her fear, ill-disguised and rank under her jasmine perfume, and the monster in him stirred a little at the scent that was so obviously _prey_. Disgusted with himself, he rode across the field from her and set about leaving everything of his old life behind him, as quickly as possible.

 

He couldn’t stay in Pinon any longer, the house haunted by her smell and her laughter, every shaft of sunlight through the window reminding him of that morning in church when he had sealed the fate of his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please go back and re-read Chapter 1; I made some edits to it :)
> 
> After this chapter, it diverges entirely from canon- so this won't just be a re-hash of events from the series, this is the last time it runs parallel. There will be a few moments/events but that's all.

Paris, 5 years later

 

He had joined the Musketeers when he found out that his parents were dead at the hands of another Hunter, having nowhere else to turn and lacking the grief he assumed he should be feeling; though he imagined he would leave when he got bored, he found instead that they took him in like he was family, ignoring his quirks and embracing his talent for fencing. They nurtured it into a will to fight, a love of battle and a deep loyalty to his fellow Musketeers, and after several years he was still there. No one knew about his curse- he was careful enough for that- and they assumed that his heavy drinking was to dull the pain of a past tragedy, from the little he had given them.

They were half-right, anyway; drink made his memories easier to bear, made the terror on his wife’s face as she felt the cart being pulled from underneath her hazier and his own guilt less sharp, but it also dulled his beast, giving him more control over when and where he transformed. Like the rest of his family, his particular strain of lycanthropy was affected as much by external stimuli as it was by the lunar cycles- get too emotional about anything and he would feel himself start to shift. The alcohol allowed him to function without feeling much of the pain he would otherwise be dealing with, and he used it as a crutch- too much, perhaps, but he wasn’t too worried about self-preservation. He didn’t deserve it. Even Paris felt haunted to him; he smelled her around every corner, jasmine leaving a tantalising trail through the narrow streets that he eventually lost in a dead end. It was impossible, anyway. She was dead and buried somewhere without a marker, forgotten by everyone except him. She could not be stalking him through the city at night.

 

When he had no choice but to transform- either because the moon was full or because the wine had run out- he usually locked himself in his rooms and spent the night roaring and screaming and trying to break down the walls. He had learned that the hard way- one too many mornings waking up thinking he had a hangover only to find his face sticky with drying blood and soil under his fingernails had driven him to lock himself away whenever possible.

His friends thought it was just a drunken rage, and he never went out of his way to dissuade them of it. They didn’t discuss where he went on the nights he didn’t hide away from everyone, presumably thinking he had a mistress somewhere that he visited.

He didn’t tell them that he was hunting; that he was gorging himself on whatever meat he could find- livestock, mainly, when he could retain some control. There were nights where he couldn’t, and those nights were deadly for anyone caught out in the streets after full, heavy darkness had fallen. He remembered everything he did as the werewolf- remembered the hot tang of blood, the thrill of the hunt through winding streets and low-lit alleys, the scent of fear on his prey just before his claws rended their flesh and his teeth cut off their breath. It sickened him, made him try to distance himself even further, but worse; it aroused him. He could never shake off the arousal, a remnant of the animal part of him. Even as a human, a fight could heat his blood, the scent of battle tantalising and exhilarating. He couldn’t tell them any of that, knowing they would condemn him before he could even explain himself.

Regardless, they were as close to real friends as he’d ever had, and he loved them all in his own quiet way.

 

 

This, though- this had to be among one of the worst days he had experienced since joining the Musketeers. Not only did he have to spend his time with that incorrigible _pirate_ Bonnaire- there was no better word Athos could think of to describe the rogue- Porthos had been injured. And to make it even _worse_ , he could find no excuse to avoid taking them to his old estate so that Porthos could be looked after.

None that would ensure his friend’s survival, at any rate.

So he wandered the rooms and the corridors, a bottle in his hand and ghosts in his head, every echo of his own footfall her soft steps behind him and every whisper of the wind through a chimney her voice.

 

_This is where she killed him._

_This is where you sentenced her to die._

The thoughts were confused, crowded; he had lied to her as much as she had to him, but she had only married him so that she could kill him more easily. He couldn’t reconcile his own guilt with himself; he knew logically there was blame on both sides, that he could not have been trusted with her for very long, that she was doing what she thought was right and even that Thomas had not been a good person- but the clamouring, repeating thought that kept clouding the rest was _she never loved you, she only married you to finish the job,_ _she is a liar and a murderer and if she were alive now, you would be dead._

And yet he couldn’t look out of the windows at that tree, the damned gallows he had strung her up on like an executioner, because the gnawing guilt in his stomach wouldn’t rest until he was devoured with it.

 _You kill easily enough when you’re the wolf,_ he thought, but murder in his own body made him feel sick to the core. Always laden with the uneasy, almost seasick feeling of dichotomy, he had to make a distinction and split himself from his beast, just to stay sane. His brain felt fractured from pretending he was a good man. The drink helped with that, too.

 

He had asked them to go ahead without him because he could feel himself losing control; the full moon was only a day or two away, and his emotions were a mess when he was in this house. He couldn’t trust himself around them until he could drown his feelings again. He wouldn’t hurt them for the world.

So he wallowed in his misery in the house that was full of his sins- of his brother’s murder, of the death sentence he had imposed on the only woman he had ever loved, of the abandonment of his estate – and he drank until he could pass out safely.

 

Waking up, he knew instantly that something was wrong, though he was too bewildered to know what it was right away.

The acrid smell of smoke burned in his nostrils, sharp and dangerous. He staggered to his feet, bleary-eyed and still more drunk than not, and moved with strange dread through the house, shoving doors open in  his confused, single minded determination to find out what was happening. His eyes watered with the smoke that billowed thickly towards him, his breath short and gasping as he fought for oxygen.

 _How did that start-_ he wondered, staring blankly and with uncomprehending fascination at the flames licking over the curtains. He made no move to put out the fire, hypnotised by its deadly beauty. _Did I do this?_

Despite the fire raging, the soot and the ash swirling through the air, thick and pungent, he smelled her before he saw her. He always had. His sense of smell was so good that he could pick up not only her perfume, but _her-_ her skin, the tang of sweat and salt. Turning as if in a dream, sure that he must be dead and about to meet his punishment for the rest of eternity, his eyes met hers as she walked past the doorway, a heavy belt slung low on her hips, laden with weapons.

 

“You’re dead.”

Later, he remembered very little of the encounter; he had lunged for her, whether to kill her or embrace her he was never certain, unable to believe that she was alive and whole. She had dealt him a stunning blow to the head with her burning torch, and the next thing he saw was her face above him, golden in the firelight and furious. There was a silver dagger at his throat; he could feel the tip of it against his skin and everything in the beast tried to writhe from it while Athos himself wanted to surrender, to just give in to her. Five years of misery, of guilt and shame- he deserved to die by her hand. It was fitting.

“Do it,” he told her, lifting his head and offering her his neck.

 

She hesitated; the eyes that looked up at her were _Athos’_ eyes; wide and trusting and searching her face as though she could offer him some relief. They didn’t look like the eyes of a beast at all.

_He’s lying._

But he could no more lie with his eyes than she could- he had always had every emotion written in them as plain as day, and right now he looked like he was drinking in the sight of her as though she was water in a desert. Her hand trembled, and the locket around his neck caught her eye. It was _hers_ \- but on a strangely long chain, too long, really. She opened it, saw the familiar forget-me-not pressed inside, and choked on her own sob, pulling it back inside her with grim force of will.

 _Do your duty_ , she told herself, steeling her nerve and readying the blade once more.

 

“ _Athos!”_

 

She couldn’t decide if it was relief or frustration that flooded her at the interruption, but she ran all the same- despite the fact that she could have killed him in an instant and still got away before she had been discovered by that boy d’Artagnan.  She looked back only once, and then returned to Paris.

She would have to kill him eventually. She could not allow a vicious animal to roam the city, killing and maiming at will, spreading terror through the poorest citizens and probably making more of its own kind without thought or purpose.

 

But the distinction between Athos and an _“it”_ seemed very wide, suddenly. She would have to be stronger, would have to ignore the man and focus on what he _really_ was.

 _He tried to kill you, and will again,_ she reminded herself. _And he did all of that without even transforming. A monster inside and out._

The trouble was, she had never _seen_ him as his true form. She wasn’t sure she would even recognise him- werewolves were huge, ugly creatures, upright on two legs like a terrible parody of humanity but with the long-muzzled face of the creature that lent them its name. They all looked alike, with the exception of fur colour. But the fact that all she had seen of her Athos- _he is not yours-_ was his human mask meant that imagining him as anything else was more difficult.

 

She returned to her employer to report her failure. Cardinal Richelieu was a renowned vampire Hunter, personal Hunter to the King, in fact; he had allowed her to work for him as a werewolf Hunter as a favour to one of his old colleagues, a woman who had trained them both at different times. He would not be pleased by her failure, and her efforts would have to renew.

She wasn’t even certain that Athos was behind all the murders- there seemed too many, somehow, for one werewolf; but he was certainly the cause of some of them, and she had been tasked with eliminating whatever was responsible.

Even if that was her husband.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 Athos went back to his friends that night, d’Artagnan reviving him after dragging him from the burning ruin of his once beautiful house. He couldn’t find it in him to care about the building. It had been nothing but memories and pain for years now.

He told d’Artagnan little of what had happened, knowing that it was safer to let him assume than to make him question what Athos really was. He told him that his ex-wife – and that itself was a lie, they were just as married as they had ever been- had tried to kill him; told him that he had loved her but that she had been a criminal. Anything other than a _hunter_ , that would have said far too much. He locked himself away and drank for the next few nights, ignoring everyone while he went through the usual routine.  And life returned to normal- mostly.

But now he _knew_ she was alive. Now, every moment he had spent thinking he could smell her, thinking he had seen her from the corner of his eye, could have been real and not just his imagination. All of those scent-trails he had followed to dead ends might not have been his imagination. She had always been there. It was not comforting. She wanted to kill him. He could see it in her eyes.

_But she didn’t._

She was interrupted. She would have done. It was what she had wanted all along.

He still loved her, though; the knowledge that she was here, in Paris somewhere, taunted him as he went about his work. His friends thought little of his even more pronounced reticence, d’Artagnan confirming it was about a woman and that Athos wanted to be left alone about it.

 

It wasn’t until weeks later, when he could feel that familiar itching in his skin, the strange ache in his bones that signified it being time for his transformation again, that he made the decision to hunt- but whether he meant food or _her,_ he couldn’t say. Instead of his usual precautions, Athos took to the back streets of Paris near sundown, shutting himself into an abandoned shack that he had long been using for the purpose and preparing himself. He took off his uniform and folded it neatly, hiding it under a loose floorboard while he waited. The air felt thick and hot, like an approaching storm, though he knew it was his own senses overloading, heightening, the beast desperate to take over, impatient to kill.

_What if she finds you?_

_Or worse, what if you find her first?_

Both questions had only two options that Athos could see; kill, or be killed, and he had little desire to do either. He had no doubt that she would be hunting for him; he had heard she was under the protection of the Cardinal, that she was a werewolf Hunter for Paris under his command and that she was looking for the wolf who had been slaughtering senselessly for the last few months.

 

He curled his lip at the thought of Richelieu. The Cardinal was corrupt beyond belief, his little band of Red Guards the city’s apparent “official” defence against the monsters that hunted the streets of Paris- and yet, what did they ever do? He wouldn’t be surprised to find that they were taking money from the vampires themselves in exchange for protection- or even just for turning a blind eye. People died relentlessly at the hands of the vampires, the zombies, the werewolves, even- though Athos himself hunted rarely, he was sure there were others who had less caution and even less morality in their human form. He wasn’t the one killing all of those people. The human part of him reeled in horror at the thought of it. The beast in him salivated, thinking of all that fresh, hot meat.

 

The Musketeers, though it was not their official job, did more to protect people from the creatures in Paris than the Red Guard ever did. They were supposed to be protecting the _King_ , not everyone else. But if the Red Guard wouldn’t do their job, then-

 

_It’s starting._

A wave of pain rolled through him, starting at the bottom of his skull. He felt pinpricks all over his body, the itching maddening and agonising like needles piercing from the inside as his fur started to grow out. But that was just the start; he braced himself against the floor as his bones began to splinter and stretch, Athos physically _feeling_ them pulling apart and readjusting. He made no sound, instead biting on a piece of leather he had brought with him, knowing that to be discovered would be certain death- he was defenceless until this was over.

He watched in distant interest as his hands elongated, knuckles popping and scraping, thick, brown fur spreading over them. The claws were the worst part of his hands; they pierced his skin and made him bleed every time, and he grimaced, rolling his eyes in silent agony as they appeared. His spine cracked and he dropped his head to fight against the wave of nausea, feeling his feet become huge and paw-like, feeling his whole body’s muscle structure changing around his new shape. It was the head that went last, every time- his face stretching out into a muzzle, long and vicious and full of sharp teeth. This was particularly painful, the teeth sliding out through his gums as his skull changed shape, his tongue growing with his jaws and being pricked by his new teeth several times before he could manage to move it out of the way.

 

Finally, it was over. Athos himself was still conscious; the monstrous, feral part of him was wide awake and alert, as much a part of him as his own hand for all that he tried to pretend otherwise in the daylight. That part of him understood little except for his own need to eat, to hunt, and to kill; Athos could control it only by utilising all of his own mental strength, by repetition and by physical exertion, holding his huge, powerful body in check though it trembled to be gone, to be scenting the night air. It was exhausting but thrilling; the sheer power of this body, the strength flooding through him, was exhilarating and wonderful.

Cautiously, he moved to the door, and finding no one immediately outside even with careful scenting, he slunk from the building and into the shadows of Paris.


	4. Chapter 4

 

He was assaulted immediately on all sides by the scents and sounds of Paris at night; horses, people, smoke from banked up fireplaces, cooking food in taverns and the smell of roasting meat which made him salivate involuntarily. He could smell livestock, further out, and his teeth bared in a silent snarl as he tried to direct the beast’s attention to them rather than the humans, his ears flicking irritably as he listened to the sounds of hoofbeats and the murmurs of conversation that passed him by in a constant stream of noise, adjusting to the overwhelming wave of information slowly until it became just a constant buzz at the back of his mind, tolerable and useful.

 

At night, to his wolf senses, Paris was more alive than it ever was through the day to Athos as a Musketeer. Every smell told a story, left a trail that was almost visible in its intensity, weaving through the night air like an invitation to follow. Everything felt more _there_ , more real somehow, and though Athos reviled what he did in this form, he never got enough of the strength, the freedom, and the sheer exhilaration of all of this information he missed as himself, sometimes wishing he could share his experience with his friends, make them see how it could be for them all and ending his crushing loneliness at being tied to no one, nothing who knew what he was or how he felt. But they would treat him like the monster he was. If he could continue to live on livestock alone, perhaps; if he could learn to control himself better-

But the beast had tired of his thoughts, and was itching to hunt, leaving Athos no choice but to allow himself to go with it, feeling his fractured mind stitch together for the moment as he stopped _analysing_ everything and just let himself _feel_ alongside the animal part of him _._ And it felt good; the air swirling with potential, the night breeze cooling and gentle, ruffling his fur. A few candles lit the streets but most of the roads were in almost total darkness, clouds hiding the full moon tonight- a blessing, meaning he could travel in relative safety from watchful eyes.

 

He headed out towards the outskirts of Paris carefully, skulking low in the shadows and hiding his huge frame as best as possible as he stalked towards the pig-pens he knew were kept without guards. A foolish decision, considering the monsters which roamed Paris, but one he was grateful for. He had lived on pigs- or nothing- alternately for months now, trying desperately to let himself believe it made him a better man and knowing he could never take back everything he had done.

 

_Wait._

There was another scent here; a familiar, maddening smell, torturous and delicious and absolutely not ignorable. He turned his huge head left and right, sniffing at the air until he pinpointed it. _There._ Jasmine. Unmistakable and strong, it carried under it a strange smell of something metallic, something less cloying and sweet, something that she was clearly attempting to hide underneath her perfume.

 _Blood_.

Ears pricked forward, teeth bared, Athos turned from the trail he had been following, drawn towards the new one inevitably. He only knew one person who smelled like that, and she smelled _injured._ He growled, low in his throat, and wound his way through the streets as silently as any predator. There would be a hunt tonight after all, not just fat livestock and unsatisfying, animal screams of fear. A _real_ hunt. His stomach growled in anticipation. To the beast, she was just the _enemy_ ; to Athos, she also carried the title of wife- and _Anne_ , though he supposed it wasn’t her real name.

She would be out hunting for him; he knew that the Cardinal had charged her with dealing with the werewolf problem in Paris- she had the most experience and the most success of any remaining Hunter since the Guild had shut down, and he would be foolish to waste her talent. It wouldn’t matter to her that a single werewolf could not be leaving the amount of corpses behind that they were finding. She had never loved him, after all; why would she hesitate to kill him like she had done his brother at the mere whiff of suspicion? He would destroy her first. His family honour demanded it, what little he had, anyway.

 _She is still my wife_ , he thought with some revulsion at himself and even concern for her injury, but the same voice echoed back _hunt kill feed_ with a vehemence that he couldn’t ignore. The scent of blood, just barely there, was overwhelming his reason, making it hard for him to concentrate over the singing of his own blood through his body.

_She didn’t kill me last time- maybe she-_

_Kill._

 He obeyed the savagery of that voice, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering scent of jasmine. He was nearing her now, the blood-smell stronger too. It smelled strange, like old blood; perhaps her wound was minor and had already closed, or perhaps it was merely the perfume distorting it. Regardless, she would be weak and potentially helpless, and his primal urge was to hunt her down like a newborn calf.

He twisted his way through another street and spotted a shadow passing through an alley at the end of the road. He lowered himself, flattening his ears and stalking silently towards it, eyes narrowed. He was almost trembling with exhilaration and bloodlust, the thought of satisfying the urge to _really_ kill for the first time in months almost overwhelming to him. One more corner and she was trapped against a dead end, the alley leading only to a locked door.

She turned, slowly, looking up at him with her knife already in her hand and a defiant tilt to her chin that he had once loved. Athos snarled, lifting himself to his full height and towering above her, blocking the entrance to the alleyway with his bulk. She didn’t even flinch, her own lips twisted into a sneer as she assumed a defensive stance, one hand dropping to the wide belt slung over her hips and drawing her silver sword smoothly from the array of weaponry she carried. The smell of blood was stronger, but she didn’t _look_ injured, and Athos felt a moment of confusion, scenting the air experimentally in the moment of silence.

“I’ll kill you, monster,” she said clearly, not seeming to recognise him from where he stood in half-shadow. Why would she- one werewolf looked a lot like another. She didn’t hesitate, throwing herself towards him fearlessly with her sword raised. Athos let out a low, growling cry and stepped forwards with murderous intent.


	5. Chapter 5

And then she faltered as he stepped unwittingly into the light of a spluttering candle. Her sword trembled, almost imperceptibly, and the smooth, fluid arc of her arm came to a stuttering stop.

 _It doesn’t make a difference,_ she told herself, steeling her heart against the rush of complex and painful emotions that welled up in her. _You cannot fail again._ But still she didn’t move, and the werewolf had stopped too, seemingly confused as to what was happening. Its (his) head tilted to one side, brow furrowing and muzzle pointed towards her, sniffing in more curiosity than anything, though she could see its muscles straining as though being held back against its will.

 _Why did she stop?_ Athos asked himself. _What is she looking at?_ He was holding himself back with incredible self-discipline, everything in him screaming to end it, to finish the hunt and destroy his enemy, but he could _smell_ her- not just her perfume, but her skin, the familiar, clean scent of her body. The blood scent was stronger, and it _was_ strange. He sniffed at her in interest, trying to find the source, and realised with some shame and a hot rush of raw bestial arousal that it came from between her legs. _Oh._ He growled involuntarily, nostrils flaring as he breathed it in in earnest, his cock beginning to stir as the beast recognised the smell of her cunt as _his_ , his mate, remembering burying himself inside her, spilling his seed deep inside her body. Athos would have flushed at the thoughts, and at the beast’s evident desire to mate despite- or because of- it being her _time_ , but he was beyond that now, his cock hard and huge, the knot swelling and everything in him aching to _claim mate take breed_ , the beast and him in perfect harmony for once because he _was_ the wolf and couldn’t separate their desires when it came to his wife- the one woman he had ever loved and possibly the only one he ever would, despite her betrayal. But he held back, clinging to his better judgement and his humanity for as long as possible, disgust at himself, at her, at the way this was playing out flooding him even as he searched her face, willing her to recognise him, to see that he was still in here- but why, he wasn’t sure. He should kill her, right now, without hesitation, for everything she had done to him, for pretending that she had loved him when he had given her everything-

 _He’s huge,_ she thought, narrowing her eyes and looking up at him. He had to be seven feet tall; his fur was smooth and a glossy, deep brown, thick and bizarrely soft looking. She wasn’t sure at first, couldn’t believe her own eyes- or didn’t want to, knowing that she had to kill it (him), but it had to be Athos. His eyes- that little confused furrow between where his eyebrows would have been, the deep, blue intensity of them as they watched her carefully- they could only be his eyes, so sad and so lonely that she almost wanted to cry. She had never thought she would recognise him as the monster- had clung to that hope and that thought, hoping that she had already killed him without knowing, or hoping that when the time came she would do it without ever burdening her soul with his death – _Why should you care, he tried to have you killed?_

She didn’t know _why_ , other than she had loved him, and loved him still. That had never been a lie.

He flicked his tongue over his muzzle, and she noticed the scar on one side of where his lips would be- she remembered tracing her finger over that scar, kissing it idly, loving the strange, off-center crookedness it gave his smile in the most endearing way. It was still almost endearing, despite being on the face of a monster. The knowledge, the strange juxtaposition of images it gave her in her mind, made her frown and lower her sword, barely noticing that he had lowered his huge clawed hands.

But she was lost, utterly lost and defenceless, when she dropped her eyes and saw, nestled in the soft, thick fur of his neck, the locket. The locket he wore that she had given him; with the tiny, pressed forget-me-not inside. She remembered that locket, the embossed casing and the strangely long chain he always wore it on, and realised that it was so it didn’t strangle him when he was the beast. She had never thought he would wear it- it was silver, and surely it would make the monster recoil-

 _Unless he has control over the beast,_ she wondered, staring into his (its) eyes and searching for anything human she could find in them. She saw him shaking, tensing even more, looked down further and saw his cock was hard, already slick with pre-come- and intimidatingly huge.

She was at a loss; she’d never encountered a monster that had been aroused- usually that drive was dormant when in beast form – though she had read in the dusty textbooks she had been forced to learn in the Guild that when a werewolf’s mate was in close proximity, it could confuse the hunting drive with the mating urge and cause spontaneous erections.

 _And I’m the mate._ This didn’t look spontaneous- it looked as though the beast (Athos) was straining against every urge he had to still himself. His nostrils flared again, a low, rumbling growl bubbling up from his throat, and she realised that he could smell where she was bleeding from. Of course. She had taken great pains to hide it as best she could, but his sense of smell was incredible. She flushed at the thought of him smelling _anything_ of her down there, even though she recalled how he had spent hours with his head between her thighs, using his tongue on her in ways she hadn’t even thought possible before him. She felt a spike of unwanted arousal at the memory, and watched in fascinated horror as he seemed to pick up on it, inhaling deeply and licking his jaws.

 _But surely he doesn’t remember- he is mindless like this-_ everything she had ever read had informed her that the monster felt nothing of the human counterpart; no emotional attachment or considered thoughts, no memories of the human and no higher sentience. But Athos was staring at her in such strange intense silence that she felt as though he were able to speak.

She took another step forward, closing the space between them, everything in her brain telling her that this was dangerous, that it was stupid and reckless and she was going to die. She ignored it; she had to know. If he was sentient, then every other wolf she had dispatched had been, and she had been lied to as surely as she had lied to him.

She sheathed her sword, returned her knife to her belt slowly, as if in a dream, and, licking her lips, she looked into those big, familiar eyes and whispered,

“Athos?”


	6. Chapter 6

 

The change in him was instant; his ears flicked forwards, his head tilting to one side, his whole body sagging as if in relief. She watched in wonder as the huge, terrifying beast seemed to try and make himself as non-threatening as possible, though his cock was still hard and his teeth still glinted dangerously. He barely seemed to breathe as, with trembling fingers, she reached up to the locket and lifted it from his chest, running her thumb across the pattern embossed there, worn smooth by constant touch. She opened it as if unsure it was the same one, though she would recognise it anywhere, and stared for a long, silent moment at the tiny flower within before she snapped it closed and dropped it back against his body. She took a sharp breath and nodded to herself, biting her lip as she raised her eyes to his again and reached out her fingers once more, touching the line of his scar with careful, calculated gentleness like she had touched it so many times before. Athos stood still and silent, watching her as if in amazement, and his nose was cold against the palm of her hand when she accidentally brushed against it. She shivered a little, not sure why, and lifted her gentle fingertips to smooth out the crease between his brows, smiling a little at the memory of doing it when he was angry with the world or just upset about something. He allowed her to, dipping his head for her but making no other movement, his eyes glued to hers and ever watchful.

In truth, he had never been touched in his werewolf body; no one had ever seen him like this who hadn’t died soon after. It felt terrible and wonderful, her fingers so light on him that he should barely be able to feel them, and yet he felt each gesture as a brand, her scent all over him and pleasing the savage part of him who saw her as his mate even as he himself was shaken, feeling vulnerable and exposed in a way he had never wanted to be.

He whined when she removed her hand, feeling cold without it, and she stared at him in silent assessment for so long that he thought she was going to pull her sword on him again, finding himself tensing in readiness.

“It really is you, isn’t it,” she said quietly, and there was a heavy acceptance in her voice that sounded like guilt. Her scent changed, too; tinted with fear, though not at him, and charged with something else that made his cock twitch. He could hear her heartbeat from this distance, could hear it racing like a rabbit’s just before the kill.

Now that she _saw_ Athos, she couldn’t understand how there had been any doubt. The way he stood, the way he blinked, was all him, just the proportions were a little different.

“I have to kill you,” she said, almost to herself, but made no move to draw her weapon again. Athos stared her down, barely even shifting, as if asking her to get it done, if she must, and she shook her head. “But- you’re _you._ Not a mindless animal.”

Athos felt the subtle change in her scent again, a fresh wave of arousal, and blinked, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. He growled, quietly but with intent, and she flushed hotly under his scrutiny. “Stop that. Stop- _sniffing_ me.”

He ignored her, nosing at her simply to irritate her, his muzzle pressing against her shoulder and making her laugh despite herself as she shoved him off. She didn’t even feel fear anymore- not that he would kill her, anyway. His huge, heavy cock, on the other hand-

She eyed him, wondering what it would feel like inside her, her thoughts wandering to when she and Athos had made love- when they had _fucked_ , more accurately, not every time was sweet and tender and without fire, after all- and wondering whether it would feel the same. He growled again, a low, appreciative rumble, and she glared at him for daring to be able to smell that she was getting wet and far too aroused at the thought.

It was so big, though- there was no way she could manage that without some serious-

 _Oh, God- why are you even **thinking**_ _about how you would take the monster’s **cock**_ **-**

She stepped back, startling herself as she realised what it was she was considering. It made no difference who the monster was, it was still a monster, still something she had to destroy, still a killer and a threat to the people of France-

 _You know that he could not possibly be responsible for every single corpse,_ she admonished herself. _There are far too many, and most of them aren’t even eaten. Werewolves are not wasteful feeders._

That in itself was an oddity; werewolves usually didn’t leave any of their meal, often dragging it off to finish later. The corpses that had been left scattered through Paris were only partially mauled and still fresh.

She frowned, looked up at him again from a much less compromising position of a foot away, and studied him. She realised she had been thinking of him as a _him_ and not an _it_ for a while now, and despaired at how easy she was to bring down.

 _Why is she looking at me like she sees me?_ Athos thought, watching the internal struggle playing over her face and unsure how to proceed. _She touched me like she loves me, but surely that was a lie like everything else._

 _Mate,_ the bestial voice said, and he felt the need reverberate through him with fresh urgency, the tantalising scent of her cunt too much to ignore for much longer. He stepped forward, breaking the space she had managed to win for herself, and dropped his head to her shoulder, smelling her hair, his teeth grazing her collarbone lightly without ever breaking skin. She shuddered, automatically tilting her head for him, feeling the touch like water down her spine, shocking and delicious.

 _He’s so gentle,_ she thought in wonder, simultaneously thrilled by it and desperate for him not to be. She had never broken, after all.

But it was so _Athos_ to be careful, at least at first, that she couldn’t stop him, allowing him to nuzzle and mouth gently at her skin, a sigh escaping her when his teeth touched a sensitive spot. Daringly, she reached up with both hands, burying them in the fur at his chest and delighting in the fact that it _was_ soft and warm to the touch, not coarse like dog hair. She felt the rumblings of his pleased growl vibrate through his body and smiled to herself a little. His cock nudged her stomach, bringing her attention firmly back to it, and she glanced up at him, a charged pause between them as she ghosted one of her hands down, hesitating before wrapping her fingers around the shaft. They didn’t meet, by an inch she knew she would feel when it was buried inside her- and when had it become a _when_ and not an if?- and she let out a shocked breath at her own deviance. Not that she hadn’t known she was deviant before.

Athos made a choked noise somewhere between a roar and a groan, baring his teeth. The thin thread of his control was at breaking point, and he scented at her to make sure she was still giving off the mating smell, the intoxicating, heady mixture of arousal and her blood strong and undeniable between her thighs. His conscience settled, Athos pulled back his control and allowed himself to cut off that thread, exhilarated and agonisingly desperate to taste her, claim her as his mate again. She gave him a brief, uncertain glance, but realised he did not mean to attack her and braced herself against his onslaught, laughing despite herself as he struggled with huge, clumsy claws to remove her clothing, resorting to teeth. She pushed him away roughly. “Don’t you dare, Athos.”

He whined in frustration and she unbuckled her belt, irritatingly slowly to his eyes, and dropped it behind her. It was a terrifying moment; she was now utterly defenceless should he turn- and yet she felt free and strangely safe, unlacing her dress and her corsetry with deliberate, practiced slowness just to see the huge beast squirm uncomfortably, his cock leaking and his breath coming in harsh little pants as he watched her.

She wore breeches under her dress; a practical addition that Athos growled at in frustration but that she stepped easily out of- and then she was on her back on the cold alley floor, Athos losing the last of his patience and shoving his head between her thighs, tearing at the belt that held on her cloth pads with his teeth and ripping it away from her until she was naked and exposed to him.

 _He could kill me,_ she thought, and a tremor of something that wasn’t quite fear ran through her. _Is he going to just stay down there and sniff the blood?_ It was a little disgusting; she couldn’t deny it- but it was also somehow all the more exciting for being so, for having this massive animal on his knees between her legs, hard and desperate and savage-but also strangely familiar, still her Athos underneath it all.

Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as she felt the unmistakable swipe of a huge, wet tongue over her cunt, feeling his nose against the crease of her thigh, his teeth dangerous pinpricks, reminders of what he was capable of if he lost too much control. She held her breath, waiting to see what he was doing, and let it out in a long, gasping “ _oh,”_ as he did it again, his tongue sweeping over her with almost unerring precision this time. She shuddered and scrabbled at the floor for purchase as his determined tongue flicked over her clit again, occasionally breaking off to lap at her cunt before returning to his task. It was overwhelming; animal and Athos at the same time, his care and his unmistakable rhythm mixed with the feral ferocity of the beast who just wanted to taste her- it would have been mortifying if she stopped to think about it, but it felt so _good_ , hot and wet and merciless against her, that she could only grab for the fur on the back of Athos’ head just like she used to tug on his hair, winding her fingers into it and dragging him closer, as close as she could get him, feeling his hot breath against her and his teeth like tiny daggers as he tried not to bite, Anne grinding up against him. She couldn’t hold out against such a determined assault for long, finding herself arching and crying out far too soon, Athos growling in satisfaction and licking her clean as she shivered and untangled her fingers from his fur. She wanted _more,_ now- she didn’t care anymore whether she _should_ , only that she needed Athos inside her before she could overthink it and ruin everything. He raised his head, licking his jaws and seeming to give her a satisfied, smug look, and she snarled and grabbed for him roughly, pulling him up her body.

“Now,” she hissed. “Please-“ it almost pained her to ask, but truthfully she was past caring, delirious and aching to be filled.

 _Claim,_ his mind supplied, his cock almost unbearably hard and his whole body trembling with the need for release. He surged forward, a guttural roar spilling from him, and braced his powerful arms either side of her shoulders, pushing his cock inside her in one smooth stroke that left her swearing and tear-streaked, gasping for air and grabbing onto his fur to brace herself. It was bigger than she had even realised, the unfamiliar shape of it feeling foreign and uncomfortable.

“Athos-“ she panted, and he stilled, clearly using every reserve he had, a low whine escaping him as he let her adjust. She felt the huge, powerful strength of him poised above her, his eyes boring into hers, waiting for her nod. A few breaths, a shift of her hips, and she wrapped her legs around Athos’ thighs. “Now.”

He didn’t need more than that, pounding into her savagely so that all she could do for a few minutes was wrap her fingers into his fur and hold on, feeling half-drunk and senseless with the absolute barrage of sensation from all sides. She had never been so full, the swollen knot at the base of his cock stretching her even more as he fucked her with brutal, remorseless fury, his teeth bared and terrifyingly near her throat. She lifted her chin, baring her neck to him, and with an almost strange gentleness that belied the threat behind it, he opened his jaws wide, gripping her throat between them firmly but gently, pinning her down as he rammed into her.

Finally she managed to catch the rhythm, lifting her hips to meet him, hearing the slick-slide of him thrusting into her over her moans and his constant, reverberating growl and being exhilarated rather than embarrassed at how wet she was, how _good_ this felt.

Athos could barely hold it together, the hot, wet tightness of her cunt clenching around him, the smell of her all over his body, the rolling of her hips in time with his all driving him to the edge before he had time to process everything that was happening, too lost in the scents and the physical friction to think more than _take, mark, mine mine mine-_ over and over like a prayer for the damned. He pulled his head back, wanting to see her face, but she pressed her head against his, wrapping her arms around his neck almost tenderly, and he was lost, spilling his seed deep inside her with a wordless roar. His knot was forced into her, swollen and hot, and he knew he couldn’t move for the moment so he braced himself above her, the world spinning around him and some sense of rationality finally finding him again.

When he could, he pulled out of her, unable to resist moving back between her legs, smelling blood and his own come, her arousal- all mingled and spread across her thighs. He didn’t think about it before he was licking her clean thoroughly, Anne spreading her legs for him and reaching between them to stroke his head lazily as his tongue slipped over her sensitive skin, her thighs trembling as he bent his head and began licking her in earnest again to another shuddering orgasm. Licking his jaws, he pulled back, finally, smelling nothing but their sex in the air surrounding them and feeling pleased in both parts of his mind.

She pulled herself to a sitting position, dragging her clothes back towards her as if in a stupor. He was still there- somehow she had expected him to be gone like a ghost, but his warm, solid self was breathing hard and watching her, the locket glinting in the low light with each breath.  She wasn’t quite sure yet what she had done or what it meant- for her, for Paris, for _them_ , if there was still a them to think about- but for now, she had to get home, alone, and _think._

He picked up her belt helpfully and dropped it beside her, not looking at the weapons she had arranged carefully on it. She dressed hurriedly, ignoring the corsetry in favour of just looking presentable to get back to her lodgings, and as she buckled the belt on she glanced to him, catching him looking at her with big eyes.

“Get up,” she said, her voice trembling and small to her ears, and he obeyed like a child, his height seeming suddenly very irrelevant. She reached up to him fearlessly and caressed his great shaggy head, Athos leaning into her touch as though he had craved it for years.

“Not everything was a lie,” she said firmly, not ready to admit more yet but unwilling to let him go without some hope, without something to chase the bleakness from his expression. He blinked at her without understanding for a moment before his expression cleared and she swore she almost felt his tail thump against her side. With a sigh, she let go of him, but couldn’t resist throwing a “good boy,” over her shoulder as she slipped back into the shadows, leaving him standing in the darkness of the alley with a perplexed look on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

Athos didn’t stop thinking about what she had said that night- or the next, when he gorged himself on pig until he could barely move and passed out in a bloody, sticky mess on the floor of the abandoned building his clothes were in. He kept turning it over in his mind- when he was sparring, a few days later, Aramis tutting at him because he was distracted; later that same night when he was half-drunk and miserable, staring into the bottom of a wine bottle and ignoring everyone- he couldn’t stop obsessing over it, and what it might mean.

_Not everything was a lie._

He drank more than he needed to dull the beast, finding himself unable to stop and unwilling to, as well; if he stopped, he’d have to remember the smell of her cunt, the taste of her under his tongue and the intoxicating, trembling way her thighs shook around him when she came, all heightened in his mind by the senses of his wolf. He couldn’t afford to remember that, couldn’t afford to lose his control so easily after one night.

He avoided her as best he could, his focus needed to be able to protect the King from the seemingly unending waves of the undead that were coming up from the sewers after a spell of heavy rainfall. The Musketeers spent days seeing nothing but zombies, returning home stinking of rotting flesh and covered in intestines, much to the dismay of the Garrison’s washerwomen who felt as though all they did was remove bloodstains from leather.

It was a week later, when he was wandering across a bridge over the Seine with his fingers in his ears, that he ran into her again. He was contemplating the mermaids and sirens who lived in the Seine, watching one gnawing with particular relish on something that he only later realised was the uniformed leg of a police officer. It was an unfortunately common occurrence; there were signs everywhere warning tourists and locals alike not to listen to them or their songs, and most definitely not to offer to help them in any way. Still, many succumbed to them, several each month throwing themselves from the bridge at the suggestion of one of the seemingly beautiful women. Athos was particularly susceptible to their songs, and made sure to keep his ears blocked whenever he crossed the bridge- which is why he didn’t hear Milady coming up behind him, the wind against him so that he jumped when she touched his shoulder.

He glared at her silently without removing his hands from his ears, noting with irritation that she was completely unaffected. She gave him a serene look and then pointed to the far bank before walking off in front of him, her cloak trailing elegantly behind her and the scent of jasmine finally hitting him. He sighed heavily to himself and followed, trying to ignore the rush of arousal that her smell sent through him.

They stopped a safe distance from the river- the signs proclaiming it the outer border- and stared at each other in silence for a long minute. Athos spent it trying very hard not to inhale her, trying not to recall every moment of their last encounter in vivid, explicit detail- and failing miserably, feeling the blush creep up his neck as his body remembered burying his cock inside her.

Finally, she spoke. “We need to talk. Have you killed anyone in the last week?” Short, blunt, and to the point, and Athos frowned at her suspiciously. “Don’t get coy- I’m not here to kill you, much as I want to.”

He could see her discomfort and wondered if she too was remembering that night. She could barely make eye contact, despite her cool exterior, her hands clenched tightly together and her stance taut and tense.

“No,” he answered with a shrug. “Unless you count pigs.”

“Have you seen or heard of other werewolves in Paris?” she sounded agitated now, as though even the word was reminding her of the sex.

“Not recently. Last I knew died by Musketeer hands two years back,” he said, shivering involuntarily. He had been there; had seen the werewolf taken out by a skilful shot from a silver musket ball. _It could have been me._ “We tend not to stray on each other’s territory,” he added, wondering why it was so easy to say _we_ with her when he spent his whole life saying _they._

“Then we have a problem.”  She glanced at him and frowned. “Assuming you’re not lying.”

“You’re the expert on lying in this marriage,” he spat back bitterly, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s been five years, Athos, and yet you’re still calling it a marriage. How sweet.”

He grunted and folded his arms. “Make your point.”

“If you’re not killing people, _something_ is, a lot of people – and it’s making it look like a werewolf attack. So either there’s another werewolf in the city, or we have an even bigger problem.”

“What does your boss say?” he asked, sneering.

“The Cardinal expects me to rid the city of every werewolf in it. Including you.” She paused. “Don’t make me regret leaving you alive so far.”

“You’re a Hunter,” he shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time before you can’t help yourself.”

“And you’re a monster, Athos! A wild animal with no control! Werewolves can’t help it, it’s not their fault, but they are dangerous and like a dangerous dog, they need to be put-“

“Put down?” he suggested, furious. “You didn’t seem to want to put me down the other night. Perhaps I should tell his Eminence all about what you do with werewolves when you’re supposed to be hunting them? Would he like that?”

“Don’t you _dare-“_ she hissed, looking as though she would like to slap him, a crimson flush across her cheeks. “Besides. I didn’t like it. And I would tell him that you- that you forced me.”

“I could smell your cunt then,” he said very deliberately, raking his eyes over her. “And I can smell it now. You were soaking wet and desperate for me, and you can’t _ever_ pretend otherwise with me.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Athos felt the beast in him start to uncoil, and took in a deep breath, unwilling to lose control out in the street in broad daylight. He gritted his teeth and balled his hands into tight fists at his sides, wishing desperately for a drink.

“What do you _want_?” he asked wearily, finally, willing himself back to some vague semblance of calm.

“Nothing- for now. Keep an eye out for others like you, and I’ll try to find out anything else.”

She hesitated in front of him, looking up into his eyes and wondering how she could feel so confused by him. That night had been- terrifying, and wonderful, and she had felt as though she knew him better at the end of it, even though he had been mute and savage. But now all they did was go in circles of hurting each other, unwilling or unable to just _speak_. It was almost easier to deal with the monster. He looked back at her in sullen silence, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowed, and she wondered if he really could smell her or if he was bluffing. She remembered the way the beast had looked at her, how gentle he had been at first, and wondered if this Athos still had that gentleness in him, underneath his bristling anger and his barbed tongue.

She reached out to him as if without noticing, splaying her fingertips over his doublet and feeling the leather warm under her skin, softened and supple with wear. He tensed, his breath hitching, and then without saying anything, he touched her face, caressing his thumb over her cheek before pulling away abruptly from the contact. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll keep watch for more monsters you can kill.” He curled his lip and turned from her, stalking away across the streets back to the garrison, leaving her with her hand still outstretched for a long moment after he’d gone.

Athos half-emptied a bottle of wine as soon as he sat at the table in the yard, groaning and putting his head into his hands.

“You alright?” Porthos asked, sliding onto the bench opposite him.

“Never better,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Yeah, you look it.” Porthos huffed out a laugh and dragged a bowl of bread and cheeses over towards himself. “You hear they found six more dead blokes in the city last night?”

“Six?” Athos raised his head.

“Werewolf, they reckon,” he shrugged, stuffing his face with cheese. “Mauled.”

Athos frowned. “Not eaten?”

“That’s the odd bit- they were pretty much intact.”

Aramis arrived, sweating and with his shirtsleeves rolled up. “Nice to see everyone taking a break when there are zombies to burn. Don’t mind me, I’ll just do all of the work.”

“I was going to come back,” Porthos said, trying to look charming and withering under Aramis’ glare.

“And was that before or after you saw food and decided you _had_ to have another lunch?”

“You two sound like an old married couple,” Athos grumbled into his wine, amused despite himself.

“Thankfully, that isn’t legal,” Aramis sighed, still staring at Porthos.  “Or I’d be stuck with him by law instead of by some frankly questionable life choices. Come and help me before I drag you onto the pyre.” He walked off without waiting for an answer.

Porthos stood, picking up as much bread as he could manage to take with him. “I’d better go,” he said apologetically, though he was grinning. Athos waved him away with a smile, and Porthos hurried after Aramis, catching up with him and slinging an arm around his shoulder that Aramis only mildly contested, finally submitting to have his cheek kissed in apology. Athos shook his head and turned his attention back to his current attempt to get very drunk, which was interrupted by his thoughts.

 _Six_ bodies in one night? That was either a whole pack of werewolves, or something else entirely unheard of. Athos wasn’t sure which he would prefer.


	8. Chapter 8

The bodies kept piling up. Two more the next day, and four the day after. Athos was starting to suspect that something much more insidious was happening than a simple monster attack, and he voiced his suspicions to Treville after another three men were found face down in a ditch, several days later.

Treville had been a Hunter years ago. He had been famous, actually- it had been him who had singlehandedly tracked down a whole nest of vampires who had terrorised Paris for a whole year, and had burned their lair to the ground while they slept inside. That had been a major event; the King himself had honoured Treville with a three-day celebration in the streets, and had offered him a place in the Court. But Treville had refused, asking instead to lead the Musketeers, and so here he was, years later, still Captain and still formidable in a fight.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Treville said heavily, leaning his elbows on his desk and looking up at Athos with patience. “It would seem it’s a werewolf pack, nothing more.”

“I’m not sure,” Athos insisted. “I know werewolves- this seems somehow-“

“I can make inquiries at the palace if you want,” Treville shrugged. “But you’ll be disappointed.”

“Thank you,” Athos said, nodding gratefully. “I hope I will be.”

“If you’re going to investigate it, be careful,” Treville added as Athos turned to leave, giving him an odd look, his brow furrowed.

“I will.”

 

Aramis and Porthos rode back into the garrison as Athos was leaving the office. They looked perplexed, dismounting from their heavily armoured horses and handing them to cadets before talking in hushed voices to each other.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’ve just been talking to the soldiers. There’s not been a vampire attack for two weeks,” Aramis said, glancing at Athos worriedly.

“Surely that’s a good thing?”

“It’s not right, that’s what it is,” Porthos grunted. “When have you ever heard of Paris going two weeks without an attack?”

Athos inclined his head, acquiescing. Aramis ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

“Do you think they’re scared of the other thing out there? The werewolf?” he asked.

Athos frowned. “Vampires aren’t scared of werewolves.”

“Werewolves don’t usually attack six men in one night, either,” Porthos pointed out. “Something’s going on. Where’s d’Artagnan got to now?”

“Last I heard, Treville had sent him to look for the source of that zombie problem we’ve been having and block off their exits.”

Aramis made a disgusted noise. “Rather him than me.”

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan said, arriving at that moment, soaking wet and stinking. Aramis grimaced.

“Dear God, d’Artagnan, did you _fall_ into the sewer?”

D’Artagnan glared at him but made no reply, squelching across the yard in search of a bath. Porthos laughed uproariously, slapping Aramis on the shoulder. Even Athos raised an amused smile.

 

“I’m going out,” he announced to the others. They didn’t ask, knowing that Athos preferred to keep his business to himself, and merely wished him a good night.

 

He went straight to a tavern – one he frequented often enough that he had his own table, tucked away in the corner where he couldn’t be seen from the door. He barely glanced at the sign painted on the entrance warning people to beware of vampires and pick-pockets.

“You’ve got a guest,” the barkeeper said as he went for a drink on the way past, nodding with his head to the table.

Athos wasn’t surprised, paying for two bottles in silence and weaving his way through the tables to where Anne waited for him. He pushed one across to her and waited for her to speak.

“You don’t look happy to see me,” she said, lip twisting in wry amusement.

“I’m not,” he shrugged, trying to ignore the assault on his senses at her proximity. He took a long swallow of wine and hated the way his hand trembled.

“Have you found anything?” she asked, opening her bottle and pouring herself a glass. Athos didn’t miss the way that her fingers shook as well.

“There hasn’t been a vampire attack in two weeks,” he offered. “But other than that, nothing. Treville is going to ask around at the palace.”

“There hasn’t been a sighting of any werewolf in Paris since the night we-“ she broke off, and Athos was amused to see the blush creep over her cheeks at the memory.

“Of course not,” he sighed. “It’s not like it happens every night. Unless they have my particular version of lycanthropy and are so out of control that they turn at the slightest emotional upset. Which would indicate a very young werewolf.”

“That isn’t it,” she shook her head. “New werewolves are _ravenous._ They wouldn’t be leaving corpses littering the streets uneaten.”

“True. And it’s a whole lot of _ifs_ , as well.” He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it, her perfume and the deeper scent of her body filling his lungs. He groaned involuntarily, closing his eyes as if against the information, and she watched in silence, taking a drink without her eyes leaving him.

Recovered somewhat, he continued. “But if it’s not werewolves…?”

“I don’t know any mons- creature,” she amended, “that hunts so wastefully.”

“Was the blood drained?” Athos asked, not commenting on her choice of words but silently a little bit touched.

“No.”

“Not vampires then.”

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their wine and looking glumly at the table while they thought. Athos could feel his whole body longing to touch her, remembering the feel of her skin under his fingers and the silken warmth of her hair. But he said nothing; in the end, that had always been their sin, hadn’t it. They couldn’t communicate when they were happy and newly in love- how would they manage it _now?_

“When are you due to…?” she asked him suddenly, and he blinked at her, returning from his memories.

“Two weeks, yet,” he said, frowning. “Just under. Why?”

“Will you be hunting?” _Do I have to kill you?_ She was tense, her hands idly rolling her glass between her palms, her eyes fixed on the grain of the table between them.

He shrugged. “I ate last time.”

She looked at him and he sighed. “It was _pig._ I’ll probably just lock myself in my rooms and ride it out.”

“Don’t the others notice?”

“They think it’s just the drink,” he said, curling his lip involuntarily. “I haven’t corrected them.”

She looked at him steadily, on the verge of making a comment about how much he drank, and held it back. _How emotional do you have to be to need to stay permanently drunk to avoid turning?_ she thought instead. He seemed almost _too_ calm, like he was hollowed out from the inside. Whatever he was hiding from, it was killing him. It didn’t even occur to Anne that it might be her.

She rose from the table briskly, not meeting his eyes. “I should go.” He reached out for her without even thinking, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and holding her back, the agonising, delicious sensation of her skin under his hand almost torture.

“You don’t have to. You haven’t finished your drink.”

She didn’t sit down, instead lifting her glass and draining it, staring at him. A flash of irrational anger washed over her- irrational because he was being _nice_ , damn him, and what right did he have to be nice after what he had done to her? He surely didn’t expect that she had forgotten he had strung her from a tree and rode off without a word? Or did he think it didn’t matter?

She pulled her hand from his, scowling, hating herself for making that stupid, forlorn look shadow his face again and hating him for making her hate herself more than usual. “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” she spat, stalking away from him and disappearing into the crowd.

 

He drained his bottle with one long, angry swallow, slamming it back onto the table and burying his head into his hands. Her scent lingered like a ghost, hanging around him, invisible and heavy. Eventually, he stumbled home, another bottle downed and his head buzzing and foggy. It was long past dark and despite his drunkenness, he kept one hand on his sword just in case of a vampire ambush. It was unlikely; he stank of werewolf even in human form and most other creatures would ignore him rather than starting a fight.

He weaved his way over the bridge with his fingers in his ears. The mermaids were feasting on a body in the water, he could see their scales shimmering as they ate. He didn’t stop too long, despite the grim fascination- that was a very quick way to die.

 

Defeated, exhausted, and still very drunk, Athos passed out on his bed as soon as he reached the garrison, not bothering to undress. He could still smell her on him- or thought he could, anyway, surely that was impossible, they had barely touched- and his head swam with visions of her as he lost consciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

 

One week later, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan were up to their elbows in ooze, cleaning out the last of the zombie problem and putting up warnings at as many entrances as possible to keep the doors locked. It would do until the next heavy rains, at least.

“At some point, _someone_ has to go through all of those tunnels and burn the last of them,” Athos grunted painfully, pulling down the scarf that was covering his mouth.

“I volunteer d’Artagnan,” Aramis said cheerfully, climbing out of the filth and pulling Porthos up after him.

“I hate you,” d’Artagnan sighed, waiting to be pulled out of the goo. Eventually Athos took pity on him, reaching out his hand and dragging him out.

“Just be glad it’s only zombies,” Porthos shrugged. “Remember that time a whole horde of banshees attacked the city?”

“They hardly attacked,” Aramis frowned. “They just…wailed a lot.”

“They screamed bloody murder whenever someone died,” Porthos objected. “It was awful. Couldn’t shut them up and they didn’t listen when you tried to move them on. Too busy howling. Sounded like you when I borrow your clothes without asking,” he added to Aramis.

“To be fair, that’s kind of their thing,” d’Artagnan interjected. “And they left as soon as the old Cardinal died. Now we only have the usual one or two wailing and moaning.”

“Still. That was the longest week I’ve ever had. I’d rather have werewolves. Least you know where you’re at with them.” He mimed shooting a gun and Athos flinched.

“My clothes don’t _fit_ you,” Aramis grumbled. “You burst the seams.” Porthos just laughed.

 They climbed onto their horses wearily, heading for their favourite tavern just outside of the garrison for a well-earned drink. It was the “Sword and Spectre,” and prided itself on having a resident ghost. The owner ignored anyone who reminded him that in fact most of the inns and taverns in Paris had a resident ghost, ghoul, or poltergeist and that his was a very ordinary one in the grand scheme of things. All it did was move plates and knock glasses off tables like a petulant cat on a windowsill. It didn’t even _appear_ to anyone, which was all in all quite disappointing. He hadn’t even needed to call a priest to give it a good telling-off, which made it notable if only for its lack of actual _haunting._ That was why they came here- the more lively ghosts were a nightmare to try and drink around.

 

Drinks warming their bellies and mud drying on their boots, they rode for home in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Athos barely noticed them pulling up on the bridge they had taken until Porthos groaned.

“Troll.”

Athos sighed and turned his attention to the warty, misshapen creature who was squatting in the middle of the road. “Why did we come _this_ way?”

“I forgot,” d’Artagnan shrugged.

“Toll,” the lumpy troll grunted, and chuckled throatily.

“Which bridge is this?” Athos muttered to Aramis, and Aramis screwed up his face in thought.

“ _Toll,”_ it repeated impatiently, and Athos scowled.

“Yes, fine, we’ll pay the toll. Hurry up.”

“Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call. What is it?”

There was a moment of silence while Athos tried to recall the list of possible answers for this bridge- Pont Neuf- and failed. Pamphlets were given out monthly listing each possible answer for every troll-infested bridge in Paris, and Athos lost his without fail within the week. Trolls weren’t known for their intelligence and each one tended to only know a certain amount of riddles, repeating them endlessly in loops. They were vicious, though; get the riddle wrong, and they’d toss you over the bridge for the mermaids to deal with.

“Time,” Aramis called out finally, and the troll stepped aside reluctantly, allowing them to ride on.

“Honestly,” Aramis sighed as they rode across the bridge, passing the large, neatly painted ‘Troll toll bridge; please have answer prepared’ sign.  “One of you could at least _try_ to remember these.”

“I don’t usually use the troll bridges,” Athos tried to explain.

“You like to use the one with the mermaid nest instead,” Aramis sighed. “Honestly, the trolls are safer.”

“The mermaids are prettier, though,” Porthos grinned, and Athos didn’t dignify him with an answer. Aramis glared at Porthos.

“Don’t encourage him.”

 

Another week passed and Athos began to feel the telltale restlessness of the full moon approaching; an itching deep in his bones that drink couldn’t supress. He became quiet, sullen- completely involuntarily, his feeling of _not right_ just too strong. It was almost a relief when the first night came and he could lock himself into his rooms, safely away from anyone else, and from any Hunters about. They tended to prowl at peak times.

He screamed his way through the transformation, muffling it into his pillow and clutching at the sheets in desperation and agony until it was over and he was suddenly far too big for the bed. He got to his feet, hunching a little in the low-ceilinged room, and paced in anguish, the beast wanting to escape but Athos’ human part holding himself in check. These nights were long and often ended with Athos destroying his rooms. He kept them almost empty as a precaution; very little furniture, nothing new or fancy that couldn’t be replaced with minimal attention.

He’d been pacing for a few hours when there was a knock on the door.

He didn’t answer, but a tantalising scent began to seep in from underneath the door, and eventually Athos was curious enough to open it and have a look.

There was a whole, freshly slaughtered, pig carcass in front of his rooms, and nothing else to be seen. He dragged it in hurriedly, locking the door behind him, and set to work devouring it with abandon, barely even thinking about the source of it until it was in his stomach and he was licking his jaws and cracking open the last of the bones for the marrow.

There had been no one in the corridor; he hadn’t smelled anything unusual, but he was too busy inhaling the pig to have noticed anything else at that moment, the beast far too hungry to care. He puzzled it over in his mind.

And how had they got in with a pig carcass? Surely no one would allow someone to just wander past the guards unchecked.

Questions still unanswered, he fell asleep, the big meal soothing Athos’ restlessness for the night.

 

The next night, it happened again, and again Athos dragged the pig inside and attacked it as though he had been starving. In truth, he hated locking himself in, but knew it to be a necessity- too many animals slaughtered and there would be guards posted. Too many guards, and Athos knew he would return to killing easier prey- humans.

He picked the bones clean and again wondered who it was who was delivering him his dinner. No one in the garrison knew what he was, and Anne surely couldn’t have sneaked past the guards to get here.

 

The night after that, he was determined to catch them in the act. He waited by the door, his pointed ear pressed against it, and as soon as he heard the thud of the carcass hit the floor outside, he pulled the door open quickly.

“Evening,” Anne said mildly, kicking the pig towards him. “Dinner is served.” She didn’t seem surprised to see him; if anything, she looked bored, her hands folded over her chest and her belt slung with weapons.

He snarled, half-heartedly, and pulled the pig into his rooms, feeling suddenly, strangely ashamed of himself and his hunger, which was making him salivate, the smell of the pig mingling with her perfume in a terrifyingly intoxicating mix that left him unsure where mate ended and prey began.

Anne’s heart was thudding painfully against her chest, her breath catching even as she tried to look calm and uninterested. He was so big- he seemed even more so when trying to fit into the small space. His rooms were lit and she could see him fully for the first time, his massive, powerful body, his savage jaws and his huge clawed hands all lit in the golden glow of candlelight, making him seem strangely soft and dreamlike. She found herself transfixed by the steady rise of his chest, the locket glinting in the light.

 She had calculated, carefully, exactly what she would do if she saw him like this again, but it all disappeared as she stared at him in trembling, silent fear and with an unwanted curl of arousal sliding through her belly. She shouldn’t even _be_ scared. She had killed dozens of werewolves. It was her _job_.

It occurred to her finally that she wasn’t afraid of _him_ but of her own desire- it went against all of her training, all of her work. Memories of the last time flooded her brain, overwhelming sensation and the strength of his body-

His nostrils flared and he turned his huge head towards her suddenly, inhaling. She felt herself flush and tried to look assertive. “Stop sniffing me, damn you.” He bared his teeth and seemed to almost roll his eyes, turning away from her again. She hesitated for a long, painful moment on the threshold of his door, and then stepped inside, locking it behind her and letting out her breath as quietly as possible.

 

“You can eat,” she said, more calmly than she thought she could, and steadied herself against the wall. He looked at her doubtfully, the pig on the floor between them, and she saw a flicker of her Athos – _not mine, never mine-_ cross his face again, that wide-eyed frown she had loved.

 _How is he controlling himself_ , she wondered. Werewolves were not known for their restraint when food was in front of them. But he hadn’t touched the carcass.

She glanced around the rooms, seeing the mess of the other pig bones, broken and splintered and tossed aside. She saw the empty wine bottles- dozens of them, strewn around and tucked under tables and shoved into corners- and again marvelled at how much he needed to drink just to stay human.

When she glanced back up to Athos, he was standing less than a foot from her, his huge body crammed into the small space, his head lowered to be level with hers and his muzzle scenting over her. She was suddenly, painfully aware of his cock, half-hard and very close to her, and of his scent, which was pleasantly musky and much stronger than when he was human.

 _He can smell I’m aroused,_ she remembered, feeling suddenly very exposed and pressing herself back against the wall. Her chest heaved embarrassingly under his scrutiny and for one bizarre moment she remembered how she had felt on their wedding night.

 

She hadn’t been a virgin. She had been given little choice in the matter; she could barely recall the first time she had been raped, but it hadn’t been the last. It was partially why she had joined the Guild in the first place; a chance to learn to defend herself against the human monsters as well as the non-human ones. So in theory she had little innocence to give, she had thought. It wouldn’t matter, she wouldn’t feel anything anyway.

But Athos had been gentle and shy and unsure himself of what to do until the moment he was inside her, instinct taking over and an expression of desire and pleasure on his face that had fascinated her. He had touched her like she was a baby bird, fluttering against his hands, and he was so careful not to hurt her that tears had streamed down her face when it felt _good_ instead of numb, when his caresses made her arch against him and when she couldn’t hold back the smile and the choked _oh_ as his fingers worked against her clit with growing confidence, Athos intent on making her feel good.

 

She blinked, and Athos growled, his breath hot against her throat, his nose pressed against the scar that she bore from her hanging. She stood still, feeling her blood roaring in her ears, and he moved on, lowering his head to scent between her thighs.

“ _Athos-“_  she said, half breathless and half embarrassed. He growled softly, not lifting his head from between her legs, and she found herself reaching out to touch that soft fur between his ears like she had his hair so many times. He leaned into her hand for a moment and then abruptly raised his head to look into her face, his jaws terrifyingly close to her. She knew what he wanted, could feel the heat radiating from him and was even beginning to be able to read his face like she could as a human, and she nodded, shivering from the thrill and the fear and the _want_. He snarled, frustrated at her clothing, and she helped him undress her, half tearing herself out of her lacings and her layers in impatience. She dropped her belt to the floor unheeded, the weapons clattering on the stones, and soon stood in only her boots, knee high and leather and far too unimportant to remove when she was so desperate to just _feel_. Athos didn’t seem to care, blue eyes raking over her, cock hard and slick with pre-come already, nostrils flaring and a low rumble in his chest that she could almost feel against her skin.

He crowded against her, pushing her back against the cool wall, his cock hard against her stomach and his teeth grazing her shoulder. She could feel him inhaling her, could feel the strong, steady heartbeat that was unmistakeably Athos’, could feel his growl vibrating through her. She knew she was beyond wet already, could feel the slippery slide of her thighs against each other as she squirmed, aching and uncomfortable.

She shuddered, reaching out tentatively to his chest, trying to wrap her arms around his thick, shaggy neck. Athos lowered his head for her, allowing her fingers to lace together around the back of his neck before lifting her bodily from the floor, his clawed hands under her thighs and her back still against the wall. She gasped- she wasn’t quite sure if it was surprise or sheer, heady desire- and he buried his head against her shoulder, teeth gently pressed against her skin in a delicious, terrifying display of his power over her.

Anne was almost delirious. All thoughts of _should I_ had long since fled her, leaving her only with the simple knowledge that this was _Athos_ and he had not hurt her yet, even though she had been foolish enough to let him live that first night. And if he trusted her with his life, she surely had no choice but to do the same courtesy for him. She wrapped her legs around him, needing more, needing him, and he lifted her high, bringing her down onto his huge cock in one smooth motion.

Her world narrowed to the feeling of being suddenly, overwhelmingly full, her breath coming out in a long gasp as though she had been winded. She dug her fingers into his fur, groaning and dropping her head to his chest. Athos barely paused before he was thrusting up into her, powerful and steady and merciless; she locked the heels of her boots together around his hips and clung to him, moaning into his fur as he pounded into her.

 

Athos could feel her pulse under his teeth, fast and strong. The urge to sink those teeth into her was hard to ignore, and he settled for licking over her throat, tasting the salt of her sweat and the remnants of her perfume. _Mate_ , he thought, smelling himself on her again with satisfaction. He wanted to spill his seed deep inside her, make sure that she was his entirely.

He stepped back, away from the wall, and all of her weight was suddenly in his arms. She felt almost dizzy at how easily he held her, at how he lifted her and impaled her on his cock again and again with seemingly no effort. It was exhilarating- she was completely at his mercy, trusting that he would not let her fall as he turned them both, walking to the bed as though merely carrying a drink.

It creaked under them as he pressed her down against the mattress heavily, Anne feeling herself pinned under his muscular, warm weight, cock still buried deep inside her. She grabbed at his shoulders, squirming under him to a more comfortable position, and he snarled as he continued to fuck her savagely, the entire bed shaking and groaning ominously. She pushed her hips up to meet him, finally having some purchase, and he licked over her throat, his breath hot and fast against her skin.

He came shuddering, a low, guttural howl that reverberated through her, and she groaned as she felt his hot seed pulsing inside her, felt his knot swelling almost uncomfortably. “Athos,” she managed to gasp out, and he trembled above her and braced his arms to stop himself hurting her with his weight. It seemed like an age that they were joined together, unable to separate, and Anne was still unsatisfied, aching and desperate. Finally, he pulled out of her, and she felt a sudden gush of his come spilling from her. He lowered his head between her thighs, inhaling their mingled scents with obvious pleasure, and she couldn’t take it any more.

“Athos-“ she said again, her voice shaking even as she tried to be commanding. He glanced up at her, those eyes so blue and so full of lust, and she reached down to his head, her hands tangling in his fur and pulling him back down to her cunt. “Be a good dog.”

He growled at her half-heartedly but took the hint, swiping his tongue roughly over her, tasting his own seed and her arousal. He cleaned her thighs until she was trembling and desperate, her hands tight in his fur, before finally settling to curl his tongue over her clit steadily. Her thighs shook, closing around his head as he worked her to orgasm with a maddening, inexorable rhythm that almost had her crying before finally she came, sobbing out hard gasps of air and twisting her fingers into his fur so hard that his eyes watered.

He crouched over her for a while, watching her breathing return to normal, before she opened her eyes and stared up at him.

“I should go,” she said, rolling from the bed with a pained noise. “I can’t be here-“

He watched her dress hurriedly, watched her buckle her weapons belt back on with an almost apologetic air, and made no noise as she headed to the door. She looked back at him on the threshold and reached out to him. He lowered his head into her outstretched hand and she caressed his face gently for one moment before disappearing out of the door, shutting it behind her.

Athos waited for a long moment until he heard her steps fade, and then he turned his head towards the carcass of the pig, still laid out on the floor. He began to salivate again, licking his jaws and tasting Anne.

 _What are we doing?_ he thought in despair. _This cannot go on- we barely speak but we do **this**_ **?**

 _Feed,_ the beast urged, and he fell on the pig with vicious abandon, pushing aside his human doubts for the moment.


	10. Chapter 10

She slunk back through the garrison, towards the gate and the shadowy figure waiting for her. “All well?”

She paused, nodding, and was suddenly very aware of the thick, slick slide of Athos’ seed winding its way down her thighs towards her boots, sticky and copious. She shifted slightly, arched an eyebrow.

“Fine.” She sighed, glanced back towards Athos’ rooms. “He caught me.”

“I thought you’d been longer than usual.” His tone was unsurprised. “Thank you. For doing that.”

She slid her gaze back to him. “You could have been doing that for years.”

“He would have found out that I knew.”

“And he has no idea that we were Hunters together?”

“As far as I know, no.” Treville scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him.”

She shrugged, touched her weapons at her waist idly. “I have no desire for those questions.”

“Can I ask you something, Milady?”

“Perhaps,” she said coolly, assessing Treville. “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you kill him? I know Richelieu wants him dead – wants all of the werewolves dead, though I don’t see why _now_ of all times. And I know what he did to you.”

She huffed out an impatient breath, not ready to answer that to herself, let alone someone else. “He’s not hurting anyone,” she said shortly, not looking at Treville. “He’s quite sad, really. And besides-“ she laughed shortly, faking mirth, “Since when do I do everything Richelieu asks of me?”

Treville set his jaw but said nothing, watching her in silence until she felt herself shrink under his gaze. She scowled. “I don’t see _you_ killing him either.”

“I wanted to,” he said honestly. “When I first found out- well, when I suspected. I would have cut him down in an instant except he was such a good fighter. The best we’ve ever had with a blade. He fights with everything in him, and he hates himself with everything he has left at the end of the day.” Treville softened. “I saw him drinking to control it, I saw him cautiously making friends and trying so damned _hard_ to fit in. I couldn’t kill him. I’ve lived long enough to know that sometimes a monster can be a good man.”

Anne twisted her lips in a half smile that was uncannily like Athos’. She touched her throat, and turned away. “I’m not so sure about that. Goodnight, Treville.”

“Goodnight, Milady.”

-

They met entirely by accident in the woods outside Paris, a week later. Athos was performing a routine check and stock on the fire-pits that ran through the trees, lighting the safe path during the night. There were faeries in the woods, and if you strayed from the path, they would lead you into a faerie ring and you’d be trapped in it, eventually starving to death and becoming nutritious mulch for their mushroom farms. So there were fires lit every night to keep you on the right path, and there were signs throughout the forest warning- “Do not follow the faerie-folk” and “Remain on the path” as well as several warnings not to heed their promises of wealth or power.

The Red Guard had been conspicuously absent in the last few weeks- their duties had been left mostly to the Musketeers, including the manual labour of fire maintenance.  Their patrols were few and far between during the day- Aramis had commented that it was easier to find ghosts than to find a unit of the Red Guard recently.

Athos was stocking the wood up grudgingly, bringing armloads from the cart he had brought, when he heard hoofbeats and turned to see Anne riding up on a large black gelding, her hair loose. She was wearing breeches and high boots, and he blinked and turned away quickly before he could stare.

“Athos,” she said, breathlessly, as she pulled up her horse beside him. “I was looking for you.”

He hesitated before turning to her. “Yes?”

She didn’t seem to notice his reticence, her face serious. “It’s not werewolves.”

Instantly he was listening. “What is it?”

“There was a body- last night- it was _drained_ , Athos, but it had been mauled in the same way as the others afterwards-“

“Vampires?”

She nodded, her face pale. “Vampires. Trying to make it look like werewolves.”

“But why?” Vampires and werewolves tended to stay out of each other’s way; there was mutual distrust between them but little else. He couldn’t think why they would suddenly do this.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I intend to find out.”

“Meet me at the ‘Dragon’s Hoard’ in an hour?” Athos asked, hurriedly hauling another armload to the fire-pit. “I’ll help.”

She nodded and galloped off, the horse’s hooves puffing dust up in her wake. Athos dumped another load of wood, and grimaced wearily as he heard the whispering sigh of a faerie by his ear.

_You want gold? We have gold, so much- just over here, follow me, I’ll lead you there-_

“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered impatiently, swatting at it like it was a fly, and the faerie flew off, swearing at him in a language he didn’t understand.

-

He wound his way through the tavern to her, spotting her easily among the groups of laughing, drunken men. She’d thoughtfully bought him a bottle and pushed it over to him when he sat opposite her. He nodded his thanks and uncorked it, taking a long swallow. “So what do we know?” he asked when he was done, trying not to look like he was sneaking an interested glance at her outfit.

“All I know is that one of the bodies found last night was drained of blood –none of the others were, but they were all mauled in the same way as usual. It makes sense that it would be the same culprit.”

Athos nodded, taking another drink.

“No chance that a vampire saw the opportunity for a free meal?”

“He was drained before he was mauled. He was empty, no blood on the ground.”

Athos grunted and frowned at the table, thinking. “There has to be more than one of them. The body count is too high, too scattered through Paris.”

“But why would they be framing werewolves?”

“I have no idea,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Perhaps a grudge? Perhaps they’re hoping to eliminate competition? Hoping that we will exterminate the werewolves without any real justification, get them out of the way?” she speculated.

“Worked on you,” Athos said bitterly, and she winced.

“I’m just doing my job,” she replied in a dead voice. “I need to be paid, same as anyone else.”

“Your job was to murder me.”

“And I haven’t, so perhaps a little gratitude would be nice,” she snapped, more angrily than she had intended. It was difficult enough seeing Athos again after so long- never mind the gymnastics her brain was having to do just to try and reconcile the man she saw with the monster she knew he was, and worse, with the fact that he might not be a monster after all. She didn’t need his anger at her choice of career as well.

He lifted his eyes to her, and then dropped them almost meekly. “I know.”

“Look,” she said, taking in a deep breath. “Let’s just focus on _this_ for now. We need to find out why vampires are trying to get werewolves wiped out, for a start. If they’re working with anyone else, for example.”

“Has your _boss_  Richelieu given you any information that might help?”

She heard the sneer in his voice, felt her face burning at the underlying accusation, and at the fact that it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. Her position as his werewolf Hunter had come at a price she hadn’t been entirely willing to pay, and one that made her feel revolting just thinking of. She gave him an icy stare and said smoothly, “No. He just told me he wants the werewolves wiped out. All of them, as a public safety measure. He believes they are responsible.”

“Does he?” Athos asked, disinterestedly. “And how many werewolves have you- _put down_ \- since being here?”

She hesitated, not meeting his eyes. He waited in silence, and finally she sighed. “Six.”

 _Six._ That was more than he had thought even _lived_ in the city. He grimaced and took another long drink. “And how many are left?”

“Just you.”

Blinking slowly, Athos nodded. “Careless of you. Leaving even one wild animal roaming Paris.”

“It would seem the animals are the vampires.”

He took that with a silent inclination of his head. There was a moment of silence, and then Athos shrugged. “Well. We need to find a vampire, then.”

“What, and torture it?”

“If we must.” Athos said grimly.

“How do you propose that? I’m good at _killing_ them, but just capturing one seems more trouble than it would be worth.”

“Leave it to me,” Athos frowned, draining his bottle and standing up to leave. Anne stood with him, uncertainly. “Come to the garrison in two days.”

He hesitated, looking at her with searching eyes. _She is so beautiful. What right does she have to be so beautiful, after all this? After the misery she’s put me through-why can’t I stop wanting her?_

_Can I trust her?_

But what he said was “How did you get that pig past the guards? Three times?”

She laughed, a surprised outburst that was glorious in its truthfulness, and shook her head. “I can’t tell you all of my secrets, Athos.” She touched his arm as she walked past, leaving him alone with the tingle of imagined body heat branding him under his doublet and more questions than when they had sat down.

-

Athos went to find his friends, and explained as little of the situation as possible- only that he suspected vampires were behind the attacks, and that they needed to capture one alive. Porthos lit up immediately, grinning. “Does that mean I get to try out my new toy?”

Aramis groaned. “Please let him. He’s talked about nothing else for days.”

“Well, what is it?” Athos asked warily. “Will it help?”

“It’s a stake crossbow,” Porthos said proudly. “It fires stakes.”

“Yes, I inferred that from the name,” Athos said dryly. “We’re not trying to _kill_ it, Porthos.”

Porthos’ face fell. “I could threaten ‘em with it, though?” Athos looked mutely at Aramis, who was nodding vigorously.

“Alright,” he agreed. “But don’t get an itchy trigger finger.”

D’Artagnan was less excited. “Vampires aren’t exactly co-operative, Athos. How are we going to get it to come with us?”

_Well I stink of werewolf to it, for a start._

“I’m sure we can persuade it,” he said with a wry smile.


	11. Chapter 11

As it turned out, catching a vampire was _stupidly_ easy. Athos just had d’Artagnan stand around in a deserted street at night, two days later. He had to stop the boy from over-acting; d’Artagnan seemed to think clutching at his chest and sighing in a melodramatic manner would somehow attract the vampires quicker. The others waited out of sight and downwind of d’Artagnan, Athos knowing that his smell would put off most of the vampire population of Paris before they could get started.

“Are you sure you’ll be quick enough?” d’Artagnan asked worriedly. Porthos grinned and hefted his special crossbow while Athos rolled his eyes.

“And why does it have to be me?” he whined.

“You look the most like a damsel in distress,” Athos said promptly, without humour, and he almost smiled to hear Aramis and Porthos howling with laughter. “Now stand still and look tasty.”

 

The vampire was young, inexperienced; it came up behind d’Artagnan almost hesitantly, giving the others plenty of time to prepare the rope and for Porthos to load his crossbow. Athos and Aramis grabbed it before it had even touched d’Artagnan, trussing it up deftly while Porthos brandished the stake-launcher at its chest in warning. They had it tied up and at their mercy within the minute, Athos grimacing in disgust at being close to the creature. It smelled foul; like rotting flesh and mould, the only thing making it even recognisable as once-human its young age. When vampires had been around for long enough, they became grotesque, skinless-looking creatures, hunched and pale and bald. This one was almost passable for human under dark conditions. It was only when they got it to the garrison and put it under candlelight to interrogate it that they saw the clumps of hair missing from its scalp, the missing skin leaving raw, red patches behind.

“Who are the vampires working for?” Athos demanded, removing his gloves and staring the vampire down. He knew it could smell him, knew that he had the advantage. It sneered at him.

“I wouldn’t tell you, dog,” it spat, and Athos paled. In his eagerness to press the advantage, he had forgotten one vital detail- the vampire _knew_ , and his friends didn’t.

“I have to go,” he said, glancing to Porthos. “Get whatever you can from it.” Porthos nodded gleefully, and Athos fled the stable, almost walking into Treville.

“What have you four got in that stable this time?” Treville asked with weary resignation. “If it’s _another_ baby dragon, I’m going to have you all dragged in front of the King to explain why the garrison has burned down-again.”

“Not a dragon,” Athos said, recalling the incident in question.

_“It’s just a little dragon,” Porthos had said, holding the end of the rope he had attached to it._

_“Little or not, it breathes fire,” Athos had pointed out. “And soon it will eat us all.”_

_“They can be domesticated,” Porthos insisted. “I’ve heard that some of the Spanish lot have dragons they **ride**_ _into battle.”_

_“The Spanish are not known for their intelligence,” Athos said dryly. Aramis came to the defence of his lover, though somewhat hesitantly._

_“Perhaps you can train them if they’re young,” he had suggested, and Porthos beamed. The little dragon- just smaller than a very large dog- belched a ball of flame lazily into a haystack, sending cadets scattering._

_“I think not.”_

_The little green dragon had stayed despite Athos’ better judgement, and a few mornings later it had inevitably managed to set fire to almost the entire garrison, Treville’s office included. A week after that and with repairs underway, signs had been put up depicting a struck-through dragon in a red circle and the baby dragon had been released into the countryside._

“What is it then?”

“Vampire,” Athos said shortly, before nodding to Treville and turning to fetch his horse.

“Athos,” Treville said, and something in his tone made Athos turn back. “Be careful.”

“Of course.”

Athos frowned and, nodding again, he got his horse and left the yard at a gallop. He had no real idea of where he was heading, only that he had been careless and that it could have cost him his friends, his job- and likely, his life, as he would have been condemned instantly. He swore under his breath, veering over the siren bridge without pausing to hear their song, and turned off the street, pulling his horse up breathlessly in front of the abandoned house he frequented to transform in.

He stomped inside, pacing the floors angrily and scrubbing at his hair in frustration until he finally slumped in the one chair, head in his hands and swearing at himself. He had been badly shaken by his stupidity. He had to be more careful- had to hide it better, to _think,_ damn him- otherwise everything he had worked so hard for in the last five years would mean nothing. His friends could never trust a werewolf. Porthos’ callous comment ran through his mind, making him cringe.

It was true, though, wasn’t it? If he was in his wolf form, anyone was prey.

_Except her._

She was different- she was _mate_ \- Athos couldn’t trust that everyone else would be extended the same tolerance, even if he used all of his control. His mind conjured up her scent, the heady, intoxicating smell that was uniquely her, and he sighed deeply, wishing she was here, wishing she was anywhere else.

“Sulking?”

He shot to his feet, reaching for his weapon automatically before realising that it was her, and that his mind had not been playing tricks on him. His hand dropped uselessly to his side, his shoulders slumping.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, harsher than he had intended. She shrugged.

“I went to the garrison like you asked, remember,” she replied casually, “And Treville told me you had galloped off like something was chasing you. Naturally, I followed, and I saw your horse outside.”

“Oh.” Athos sagged back into his chair, sighing heavily. “We got the vampire, but it hadn’t talked when I left.”

“It won’t be doing much talking now, I’m afraid,” she said. “Porthos-“

“Oh God,” he groaned. “That stupid crossbow.”

“Yes. Why did you run away?”

“It knew I was a werewolf- it nearly told them. I couldn’t-“ he looked up at her helplessly. “If they found out-“

“You might be surprised,” she said, thinking of Treville. Athos just grunted, staring at the floor. 

“Did they find _anything_ out before Porthos shot it?”

“Mostly what we already knew. They are working for someone- it claimed not to know who, but Porthos got impatient before we could interrogate it- in exchange for power, protection and freedom form hunting.”

“And what is this mysterious person getting from them?” he wondered out loud.

“As far as I understand it, there’s some kind of exchange happening- not money, but something important, and I think it has to do with the Red Guard disappearing.”

“They’re being fed to the vampires as bribes?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to keep watching. The Cardinal is still pushing me to find the last of the werewolves and destroy them before they eat the entire population of France, so I have to pretend to be hunting most nights. I’ll do what I can around that. He’s distracted- there’s a Kraken in the British Channel and it’s disrupting the ships, so his letters are delayed. Ridiculous business, really, but what can you do with a Kraken?”

Athos scowled. “Be careful. Don’t let him suspect you. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but looked almost touched for a moment. “Thank you.” There was a moment of painful silence between them, stretching out through the room like fingertips straining to meet, and then it was gone, Anne nodding and leaving him alone in the dimly lit house that stank of dog.

-

“Where have you been?” Aramis said when he finally returned to the garrison. “We were worried-“

“I’m fine,” he said shortly. “I had to think. Alone.” Treville gave him a calculating look but said nothing, instead watching Porthos approaching sheepishly.

“I might have shot it.”

“I heard,” Athos said, mock-furiously, and then he softened as Porthos sagged, gripping his shoulder and offering him a small smile. “It’s fine.”

He looked around at his friends and his head buzzed with all of the things he could never tell them. “I need a drink,” he said instead, and nodded to d’Artagnan as he handed him a bottle without prompting. 


	12. Chapter 12

He barely saw Anne for the next two weeks; the Kraken problem had taken longer than the British Navy had anticipated to sort out, and communications were in disarray, meaning the Musketeers were busier than ever. It didn’t help that the Red Guard were _still_ thinning out, leaving more work for the Musketeers to pick up. Thankfully, it wasn’t zombies, at least- their barricades at the sewers were holding for the moment- but the Troll bridge pamphlets had been delayed at the printing press due to low supply of ink and the Musketeers had been stationed at the ends of the bridges, warning pedestrians and letting them know the possible riddles for the week. Athos _hated_ that job; he detested standing around in his increasingly damp leather uniform, sweating and bored out of his skull. He delegated his duty to d’Artagnan whenever possible, disappearing into the cool darkness of a tavern for a drink before relieving the boy, much refreshed and able to face another few hours of boredom and the endless repetition of the three answers this particular troll had taken a fancy to that week.

Even Porthos and Aramis were restless; they did their jobs without complaint, but they were irritable with each other in a way that Athos disliked, the heat and the repetition getting to them all. Porthos had taken to stomping around in thunderous silence, Aramis at his side and saying nothing as they got on with their duties. It was so unlike the usual banter and sarcasm between them that a few cadets wondered if they were still lovers, or if there had been some irreparable argument.

Treville was watchful and quiet, too; Athos spent many evenings sat in companionable silence with a glass of wine and a bottle between them on the table. Treville didn’t offer up any interesting stories from his hunting days any more, too exhausted and stressed to do more than drink steadily with Athos until they could both pass out.

There were disquieting rumours from the front lines of the war against Spain, too- rumours of invincible soldiers and vicious attacks happening in the dead of night- and with all of that combined, Athos was distracted and unprepared for the next cycle of his transformations. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to the lunar calendar, and so, he was at work when it hit.

It started, as it usually did, with the deep itch in his bones, and Athos found himself far out at the edge of Paris proper, trying to herd an irritated and vicious unicorn back out to the countryside after it had gotten lost in the city and accidentally stabbed three curious bystanders. He had a rope around its neck and was pulling it behind his horse, wary of that horn- unicorn horn was made of some strange organic compound that mimicked metal and was roughly as hard. It was essentially, an angry animal with a large sword on its head that it could use with deadly accuracy, and Athos could respect that.

“Come on,” he muttered, feeling the change beginning to creep up on him as the dusk settled in. D’Artagnan would have been better at this; he understood horses more than Athos ever could- but d’Artagnan had a day off and was spending it with Constance, and Athos couldn’t begrudge him it. The unicorn snorted and shied, aware of the oncoming transformation in Athos- unicorns were exceptionally sensitive to such things, and several Hunters had been known to beat one in a duel and earn the right to ride with it in their duties. It was more of a partnership than a simple pet-owner arrangement, and was still rare.

He pulled the creature out of harm’s way and out past the outskirts of Paris, finally. It had taken most of the evening to get the beast away from danger, and he was sweating and exhausted with the effort of that and of holding back the wolf for as long as possible. The unicorn screamed at him, high pitched and eerie, rearing and kicking unsuccessfully at his face. Athos ducked, swearing. “I’m trying to help,” he grunted, unlooping the rope from its neck and stepping back. “Go on.”

With a final, half-hearted kick, the unicorn ran, pulling up clods of earth under its massive hooves as it disappeared into the treeline. Athos sagged back against his own horse, scratching his head affectionately. His stallion knew and trusted him enough to not shy away from his touch, no matter how close to transforming he was.

The sun dipped below the horizon and Athos looked grimly at his options. He could tie up his horse and just transform here- but that would be foolish; he had no idea of his surrounding area and who could get hurt. He was too far from the garrison to get there on time, and he didn’t think he could make it to his safe-house before he turned, either.

_I have to try._

He climbed up into the saddle, his horse giving a small whicker of concern that he soothed with a gentle stroke, and galloped back into the city urgently, crouched low in the saddle and desperately hoping for enough time.

He almost made it. He was barely a street away when he had to drop from his horse, trusting it to find its own way back to the garrison. The pain was becoming blinding, everything in him screaming and creaking- and yet he held his silence, unwilling to draw attention to himself, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed which only awakened the creature more. He lurched his way into an alley, dropping to all fours in agony and crawling to the darkest corner he could see, and there, he transformed, in bitter, torturous silence. Tears streamed down his face, his whole body shaking, his knuckles bloodied as he pounded them onto the wall to distract himself from the rest of the pain, until finally, mercifully, it was done, and he lay stretched out and huge on the ground, panting. He had no spare clothes, so he threw the ones he had taken off into the corner and hoped they would be safe. He had no food, and he must hunt. He got to his feet unsteadily, flexing his hands and licking at the blood there absently as he inhaled the night air. Pigs, yes; that smell always made his stomach growl in anticipation. He could smell roasting beef in the nearby tavern, and could smell the pale, sickly scent of ale. Wine smelled like poison to him in this form, and he snarled, turning his head to find rich pickings elsewhere.

Suddenly, he stopped, frowning. _Vampire?_ He growled, hackles raising, and followed the scent- rank and rotting- out of the alley cautiously. At first, he couldn’t see anything unusual- a patrol of Red Guard to his left, an empty street to the right- and then he realised that the stench was coming _from_ the patrol, and his eyes narrowed curiously. Was one of them a vampire- perhaps awaiting its moment to strike and kill the others? Was that part of the plan? Athos slunk into the shadows at the edges of the street and followed the Red Guard, ignoring the growing need to hunt in favour of this new quarry.

It became apparent after ten minutes of following them that it was not _one_ vampire, but many. The whole unit, in fact; their eyes gleaming cat-like in the candlelight, their faces already gaunt and beginning to lose flesh, hidden under scarves and low-brimmed hats. Athos watched in amazement and confusion as they did nothing but follow the usual patrol path, wondering what it was they gained from masquerading as soldiers.

And then it struck him, an insidious and insistent thought. _What if they **are** Red Guard?_ He watched them stop a civilian who cringed away from their stench, mesmerised as they gathered around the unfortunate man and devoured him so quickly that Athos barely had time to register it happening at all.

But if they were Red Guard- and they were vampires-someone had to know. It couldn’t be going unnoticed at the highest levels. And if they were blaming werewolves for the attacks so that Hunters would eradicate the werewolves, leaving them free to rule Paris-

 _It’s deliberate,_ his brain insisted, relentless, and Athos blinked, trying to fit it all together in his mind. _Someone is ordering this._ It was difficult, laborious; the beast in him only interested in hunting and sating its appetite, making it hard for Athos to concentrate on anything else. There was something else niggling at the back of his mind, something to do with the war, and he was struggling to remember-

_Overnight attacks. Invincible creatures. A vampire army._

The realisation swept over him and he stood, motionless and in plain view if anyone had walked past at that moment, his mind churning.

 _If they’re making vampire soldiers, then someone with power must be ordering it. The King? To even think it would be treason, but it would make sense for him to want the advantage at war._ Perhaps an advisor, someone with influence.

 _Feed,_ the wolf whispered, and with a frustrated growl, Athos turned away and loped off into the night towards the scent of pig, tantalising and overpowering. He was simply unable to think of anything else until his stomach was full. Then, perhaps, he could find Anne and try to let her know what he had learned.


	13. Chapter 13

She found him gorging on the carcass of a sheep in an alley, the cracking of bones and the gentle scrape of tongue against marrow drawing her in as surely as a map. “Athos,” she whispered, her heart hammering, her mind reeling with what she had just been ordered to do- reeling with sickening, blinding fury and fear. “Athos, come on- it’s not safe out here for you.”

Athos raised his head to her, and she saw his eyes gleam in the shadows eerily before the crunching ceased, and licking his jaws, he stalked towards her on heavy, padded feet.

“We need to go,” she repeated, her voice rising to an edge she hated in herself. “Now.” He snarled silently, glancing back to his meal, his muzzle still dripping red. She shivered, knowing how easy it would be for him to rip her apart, turn her into marrow and bones and muscle just like he had with that sheep, but she stood firm. She swallowed thickly, panic seeping through her. What if he didn’t come with her, what if he refused to move? She set her shoulders and glared up at him, at seven feet of pure muscle and teeth, and moved her hand threateningly to her weapons belt, automatic and reassuring.

“ _Now,_ Athos,” she ordered.

He looked at her stubbornly for a long moment, huffing out a breath and growling, until his eyes lowered and he fell silent, and frowning at her fingers touching her gun with pathetic, scared misunderstanding.

“I’m not going to kill you-“ she said, realising her mistake and removing her hand. “I didn’t-“ she raised her hands carefully, keeping them in his sight. “ _Please,”_ she said, and it was the unexpected plea that made him pay attention, finally, his ears pricking up and his nostrils flaring as he inhaled her, nosing at her neck, her shoulder, rumbling all the while.

Then he turned, and disappeared into the darkness of the alley, and she waited with trembling, breathless anxiety until he reappeared, clutching his uniform and weapons in his huge hands. He nodded at her, his huge head bobbing in a gesture ridiculous on a creature his size, and fell in behind her, clearly able to scent the fear on her.

He followed her meekly, crouched low behind her. He was so close that she could feel his hot breath on her hair, somehow comforting- and oh, the depths she had sunk for the breath of a werewolf to be _comforting._ She led him through the winding streets and back alleys that she knew so well, stopping at every turn to make sure it was safe. They could be following her even now, though she had been careful not to leave a trace. Every nerve thrummed and her blood surged in her head, dizzying and frightening.

She had thought she was better than this; had arrogantly assumed that her intelligence and her instincts were good enough to keep her safe. _I was so wrong._ But then, she had thought that all werewolves were vicious, man-eating monsters with nothing of the human inside of them left to save, and here she was leading her husband- the giant, shaggy creature behind her- back to safety when all of her orders, all of her training, was screaming at her to put him down.

“The garrison, here-” she hissed, and Athos balked visibly, whining and grabbing her shoulder with his heavy claws. She turned, her irritation melting as she looked up into those sad eyes, worried and confused, his ears pinned back against his head like a bad dog. “There’s no other choice,” she said, urgently, and continued on through the gate. Athos followed reluctantly, slinking low to the ground as she almost dragged him to his rooms, barring the door behind them with a table and slumping against it in relief.

She felt herself shaking and used all of her mental reserves to stop, taking deep, calming breaths before looking up. Athos was staring at her again, his eyes strangely flat and feral, and she groaned inwardly. “Not now, Athos.”

She couldn’t deny that the way his attention snapped entirely to her wasn’t attractive, though. Athos had that in his human form, too- that single-minded focus which led him to seek her pleasure before his own, wanting her to feel good, delighting in her reactions and in the way she writhed under his touches.

She felt calmer now, knowing that they were safe, at least for the night, and she unhooked her belt, dropping it carelessly onto the table. Athos’ eyes drifted to it and she shook her head, despairingly. “I’m not going to shoot you.” He snarled, stepping forward and sniffing at her with his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared, and she shivered again under his attention. Perhaps it was just too much for him, having his mate in his – what would you call this, for a werewolf, she thought absurdly- his _den_ , perhaps. Either way, she could see his cock beginning to stir, could read that look in his eyes easily enough now, and felt a slow slide of arousal trickle through her despite the danger they were in.

His nostrils flared with interest, his head tilting, and she sighed, allowing a small smile to twitch at the corners of her mouth. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

She stepped towards him, determinedly, and he stood silent and still as she reached up to touch him, full of awe and unfounded fear, full of so many trembling emotions that she could not name. She ran her fingertips through the fur on his shoulders, up to his face, digging her hands into the thick hair on the back of his neck and relishing the softness there. He rumbled low in his chest, dipping his head down to rest on her shoulder, heavy and warm. Carefully, she allowed her hands to roam over him, touching and stroking and caressing him and feeling him turn soft and pliant under her hands. “You’re ridiculous,” she admonished without malice, and he merely growled in pleasure and a warning not to stop. She felt his cock, fully hard now, against her stomach, and a delicious shiver of lust flooded her. Athos huffed out a short, laughing breath against her neck, and she pushed him back, her eyes flashing wickedly as the seed of an idea stirred in her mind. She didn’t want this to be like the other times- didn’t want to just take whatever he could give her, not when there was nowhere else to be, no one to interrupt, and a warm room instead of a wet alley. “On your back.”

He frowned at her, bared his teeth in confusion and a spark of irritation- _who are you to order me around,_ that look said, and it was all animal. She shrugged, reached behind her and slipped her pistol out of the oiled leather holster on her belt casually, hefting it in one hand. His eyes flickered between her hands and her eyes, and she watched carefully, playing this by ear. She didn’t know how he would take this- or if he even trusted her with his life. She pointed the gun at him, watched his nostrils flare, his head tilt and his ears prick forward in an attempt to understand. She waited, and raised her chin defiantly. “On your back, Athos.”

His whole bearing _shifted_ from curious and uncertain to black-eyed and feral without warning, a low growl rasping out from his throat, constant and threatening. She swallowed, her aim wavering, but she held her ground, seeing his cock twitch as he sniffed at her once more. She could see some inner war happening inside Athos- the snarl was beast, but the expression was him, his chest heaving as he fought it out.

Athos won, and, licking his jaws, he lowered himself to the ground, eyes meeting hers as he exposed his stomach to her. She kept the gun trained on him, smiling to herself as his gaze returned to that hazy, lust-filled look that she recognised, his cock slick with pre-come and his attention fully on her.

“Good boy,” she said with a smirk, and he snarled half-heartedly even as his cock throbbed again. He looked at her, deliberately; clearly trying to convey something. She frowned, not understanding until he lifted his chin, reaching up to pull her gun around to his throat with one massive hand and allowing it to press against the fur there, vulnerable and at her mercy.

-

He didn’t know if she understood; if she realised that his life was in her hands, that he trusted her with it- he had no choice, not really; it seemed the only person in Paris not trying to kill him was the Hunter who had killed his brother, and the situation was desperate. But she was still his wife, and she had given him no reason not to trust her at least a little in the past few weeks. Just looking at her was painful; her scent washing up memories like flotsam on a beach after high tide, making him ache and yearn for things he knew had been a lie between them. Or had they? The way she looked at him now was almost enough to make him question everything he had assumed since he had left Pinon.

-

She was dumbstruck for a moment; here she was, wondering if he trusted her? She nodded, understanding, and carefully, deliberately, lowered the gun to the ground, pushing it away. He frowned at her, head following her movements as she undressed hurriedly, her dress and her underskirts and her corset tossed behind her carelessly over a table. She left her boots on, unwilling and too impatient to remove them, and dropped to her knees between Athos’ muscular, powerful thighs, aware that Athos was following her every move with narrow-eyed need and more than a little nervous about what she was about to do.

She eyed his cock, suddenly intimidated. It was _huge_. She knew there was no way she could take it all in her mouth. It was simply too big. She reached out, licking her lips and determined to carry on with her plans. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as her fingertips brushed against the hot flesh. Athos whined, a breathless, needy noise that gave her confidence to do it again; a delicate, barely there brush of fingers up his shaft that made his hips stutter and his breath hitch. He had propped himself up on his elbows to see her better, and his eyes- _Athos’_ eyes, clear and blue- burned into hers as she leaned forward, steadying herself with a deep breath before licking from base to tip, wet and hot. He choked back a howl and she felt his thighs tremble at the effort of holding still. She did it again, long and slow, tasting the sticky salt of pre-come, before settling her hands- _both of them,_ she thought with faint, shuddering arousal at the thought that all of that had been inside her – at the thickest part of his cock and dipping her head to take as much of him into her mouth as she could.

-

 _Fuck –_ Athos thought, explosively. He could see how difficult it was for her to even take any of his cock into her mouth, could see how big he looked next to her, and the sight was almost too much for him to process. _Breed,_ the wolf thought, insistent and needy, but Athos was content to watch this, to see the head of his cock disappear into her mouth, feel the hot, tight wetness around him, and so he held the beast in checkas best he could.

-

It was surprisingly gentle; he held himself back somehow, his claws scrabbling on the stones and his breathing ragged, while she explored him with her mouth, her tongue swirling over the tip of his cock, tasting him, feeling the heat of him as she sucked. She felt him throb against her tongue, could feel his whole body shaking under her, and was dizzy with power knowing that he was completely under her command, this huge, dangerous beast who was her husband and always would be.

She had no intention of letting him off that easily, though; not when she had him on his back for her, and so she removed her mouth from him with a wet, obscene noise, giving him an amused look as he groaned. She crawled up his body without giving him a chance to move, straddling his hips with some difficulty and lining herself up so that his cock slid hot and slick against her cunt, the friction against her clit instant and shocking. Athos squirmed under her, bucking his hips and pushing his cock against her deliciously, and with a moment of awkwardness, they struck up a rhythm, her hands fisting at the fur on his chest, bracing herself against him while she rocked her hips against him, her cunt wet and slippery against the hot hardness of his cock. His hands gripped her hips tightly, claws digging possessively into her skin, and she allowed herself to get lost in the sensations- the needle-points of his claws, the heat of his body under her, the rub of his cock against her sensitive flesh, every movement of her hips dragging the head of it against her clit. She could feel his chest heaving under her hands with every breath, could see the glassy-eyed pleasure on Athos’ face, and before long, she felt herself nearing orgasm. She rolled her hips, dropping her head and twisting her fingers into Athos’ fur as she came, shaking and breathless and somehow saying his name like a prayer. The scent of her was enough to tip Athos over as well, his cock pulsing under her as he came, hot, thick and copious, all over his stomach, snarling, his claws digging into her skin painfully and drawing bright droplets of blood. There was a long moment of silence broken only by her ragged breathing and the harsh panting of Athos, before he shifted, growled and swiped his fingers through the mess on his stomach, lifting them to her mouth until she leaned forward and licked them clean. He watched her carefully, possessive and intent.

-

 _Mate, claim, mark- mine, mine-_ his beast thought, fragmented and content. The sight of his seed on her lips, of her tongue snaking out to lick it away, was overwhelming to Athos, the scent of her cunt filling his nostrils, musky and intoxicating. He remembered the first time she had sucked his cock; her eyes, wide and open, her lips red and spit-shiny, stretched around him. He had barely lasted minutes, had spilled into her mouth and watched in dazed amazement as she swallowed it all. That had not felt like claiming, but like being claimed himself- and there was a little of that in this, too, her fingers now, dipping into the cooling mess of her own volition, licking them clean with a decided air of ownership. His beast stirred, uneasily, but Athos was lost, her wicked eyes and her come-slick lips all he could see. _Yours,_ he thought, and wished he could speak, could tell her all he had learned, all he was still learning. _Tomorrow._

-

Weary and sated, she moved to sit beside him, watching as he got to his feet, shaky and grumbling. He staggered over towards the bed, flopping down onto it with an audible creak of wood, and she winced as it creaked again when he settled himself onto his back, his legs dangling from the edge as though it were a child’s bed. After a moment, she looked around, and found a discarded blanket, wrapping it around herself and wondering if she was spending the night on the floor. She had slept in worse places as a child; this would be luxury compared to some. At least it was dry.

Athos grunted from the bed, and she glanced up to see that he had shoved over as much as was possible, leaving a small gap beside him that she hesitantly squeezed into. Immediately, she was too hot, and she squirmed out of the blanket, tossing it aside in favour of burying herself against his side, his arm pillowing her head.

“This isn’t –“ she said, quietly furious at how comfortable this was, and not able to finish with _snuggling_. “There’s just no room.” Athos rumbled in acknowledgment, turning his great head to lazily, unconsciously lick her cheek. “That’s disgusting.” She hit his ribs, but he was already mostly asleep and just mumbled something incoherently, wrapping his other arm around her and rendering her helpless.

 _He always slept like this,_ she thought, a painful, crashing wave of memory shuddering through her as she remembered how she used to stroke his cheeks in his sleep, run her hand through his hair- so gently, so worried about waking him- and how innocent he had looked, how his eyelashes were dark against his face, his mouth slightly parted, his hands loose and relaxed even as he held her close to him.  She remembered waking in those arms every morning, and her chest ached at the knowledge that she still should have been.

 _There’s this,_ she reflected, and glanced up at his face as best she could. He still had that innocent air, even though he had none of the Athos she remembered as though in a golden haze. Wriggling slightly, she touched the locket that still hung at his neck, reverently and without breathing for a long moment. Her fingertips traced the embossed flower on the front, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

She fell asleep with the locket still clutched in her hand.


	14. Chapter 14

 

He awoke uncomfortable and sweaty-limbed, his hand crushed underneath her body and his spine twisted at an unnatural angle that he couldn’t move enough to fix. But she was pressed against him, warm and pliant, and he could feel the gentle rhythm of her breathing and the warm rush of air against his chest, and it made his heart ache with sweet memories and painful, bitter love. He opened his eyes blearily, looking at her with silent anguish. He remembered waking with her in his arms every morning, and his chest was tight with the knowledge that he had ruined it all.

Reaching out with his free hand, he trailed his fingertips up over the curve of her hip, her skin so soft, so warm under his hands, thrumming with life. She sighed, still sleeping, and so he traced across her back, her shoulder, his fingers ghosting over her body with gentle, reverential precision. He bent his head unthinkingly to the dip of her neck, pressing soft kisses there and tasting the afterthought of her perfume. She hummed, low in her throat, and lifted her head, a clear invitation for more kisses that he obliged with a gentle, smiling twist of his lips against her. His hand splayed across her waist, pulling her closer against him, and he felt suddenly as though this was a dream, that he would wake alone and clutching at sheets instead of her.

But she stirred, finally, and she twisted her head up to look at him, her eyes sleep-soft and unfocused for only a moment before her gaze cleared and she frowned up at him, tension flooding her whole body at once. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said, unsure if it was the truth. “I just-“ He wished he could just say _good morning_ and have her give him the sleepy, pleased smile she had so many years before; this constant dance was making him weary to the bone.

She looked suddenly terrified; at what, Athos could only guess. His proximity, their situation, the sudden, bizarre normality of sleeping together- all of them and more were a possibility, and Athos frowned at her, trying to find words that would help, for once.

“What time is it?” she asked before he could, and with a distracted glance out of the window, Athos shrugged. “Late afternoon, why?”

“Already?” She started to retreat from him, closing herself off. Athos panicked, and took her arm, staring at her in confusion.

“Anne-“

“We have work to do,” she said stubbornly, not meeting his eyes. “Let me go. And don’t call me that.”

“It’s the only name I have for you,” Athos shrugged. She didn’t answer. “Please,” he tried again, and she paused long enough for him to take her cheek in his hand and turn her to face him gently. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “I can’t do this,” she almost whispered, and he was shocked into letting her go at the wet sheen in her eyes. She rolled out of bed and immediately began dressing, methodical and without turning back to look at him.

“Anne.” He didn’t know what it was he was trying to say, but her back was tense and her posture screamed _leave me alone_ , and so he told her what he had seen the night before, watching her tension ease visibly as he returned to safe, non-personal subjects.

She didn’t seem surprised when he had explained- the vampire Red Guard, the attack, his theory about the reasoning, all of it. She just nodded, grimly, and buckled on her belt, giving him a vaguely amused look, though it was forced and unnatural. Her face had hardened again, all of the vulnerability and fear hidden away below the surface.

“Do you plan to get dressed?” she asked, acidly, and Athos flushed, climbing to his feet and pulling on the uniform he had rescued the night before in silence.

\--

“Do you know something I don’t?” he asked as they walked the streets of Paris. She seemed nervous, looking behind her occasionally and frowning, keeping to the shadowy side streets with Athos at her side. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she replied without explanation, and he followed her in silent irritation. He still felt restless and strange; there were another two transformations ahead of him before it would abate, and his mood was as prickly as his skin felt. It was later than he had estimated, and before they had been walking for more than an hour or so, he could feel the ache starting up in his bones again, infuriating and constant.

 _Why is she so scared?_ he wondered as they moved. He watched her from under his eyelashes, sneaking a sideways glance at her occasionally and frowning at her distant expression. He had thought they were getting somewhere, had thought that when he woke up this morning, perhaps it would be different; but it seemed they were still dancing around each other. Everything he had wanted to tell her last night had died on his tongue with her glassy-eyed look. His heart was full almost to bursting with things he needed to let out, his whole body aching and heavy from it. But every time he started, he froze, the words tangling in his throat and almost choking him.

 

They were delayed by an escaped griffin that was blocking their path. A crowd had gathered around the infuriated creature as it circled and screeched and got itself caught up in its tresses, and neither of them could pick their way through the throng of people. “After you,” she said to Athos after a calculating moment of silence, and with a glare, he stepped forward towards the beast, swallowing thickly as its golden eyes fixed upon him the moment he moved.

“Easy,” he said slowly, holding his hands up to show they were empty. Griffins were proud creatures, intelligent and strong enough to carry a man on their back. Many people who could afford the training and upkeep used them for transport; it was not unusual to see several griffins fighting in mid-air while their owners swore and tugged on their reins angrily.

The griffin lowered its head and stared at him, its beak opening threateningly. It could smell the wolf in him, and Athos wasn’t sure how it would react- griffins rarely met werewolves in normal circumstances.

“Easy,” he said again, reaching for the leather straps attached to the creature without breaking eye contact and hoping it would be enough to stop it from attacking.

It screamed at him, lunging forward- and was pulled back sharply, Anne gripping its reins from the other side, hanging on grimly and digging her heels into the ground. Athos grabbed for the straps and pulled, and the griffin was unable to move forward or back, screeching its frustration out uselessly.

Their eyes met over the animal’s back, and she gave him a sudden, exhilarated smile that he returned easily, barely even thinking about it. A Griffin! He’d never been this close to one- it was beautiful, shining and golden, beginning to quiet now that it saw there was nowhere for it to go. Its wings folded over its back neatly, its tail lashing in impotent fury, and Athos risked a careful stroke to the feathers on its head that it tolerated with one eye watching him all the time.

Eventually, the owner was sent for and arrived puffing and red-faced.

“I should charge you for that,” Anne said as the man collected the tresses from her. Athos waved him away and shot her an accusing glance.

“What? I should! You could have been killed,” she protested, dusting off her hands and falling back into step with him.

“One less worry for you,” he sighed, and she flinched as though he had hit her.

“Don’t.” There was a moment where he considered telling her everything again, but he hesitated too long and it was gone before he could recover it.

But she leaned into him a little as they walked, and his fingers brushed her knuckles and she didn’t pull away, and that was a start, perhaps.

 

-

 

It was already nearly dusk when they slipped into a charred house in the middle of a row of burnt-out shells of buildings; this one had barely survived, puddles of rainwater in the corners and moss beginning to grow on the beams that had escaped the blaze, but it was out of the way, secluded, and most of all, safe, according to Anne.

“I need to-“ Athos said, already feeling his speech slurring and difficult to recall, feeling his limbs heavy and his heart thudding loud and fast. He gestured towards himself, and then glanced back at her, ashamed. “I don’t-“ _I’ve never changed in front of someone._

She nodded, turned away from him curtly, and left the room while Athos stripped himself down and waited in agitation, huddled on the floor.

He heard an audible sigh and looked up as she returned almost instantly and, without speaking, she sat a few feet away from him, delicately tucking her feet underneath her and smoothing out her dress. She didn’t look at him, and he watched in puzzlement for a few minutes until he felt the first stab of agony, white-hot and jolting. He doubled over, gasping in shocked silence and feeling a wave of nausea roll over him.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” she said in a tone that did not allow argument. He couldn’t respond through the haze of pain scorching through him, but he grunted and shot her a grateful glance, his whole body convulsing.

The screaming started not long after, and though he could barely see or hear anything, he felt a cool hand on his back, a strong presence at his side, and a gentle touch stroking through his hair, vivid and yet as though it were a dream, his body feeling strange and not-his despite the gut-wrenching torture inflicted upon it.

 

He came back to himself sprawled on the floor gracelessly. She was still there, leaning against his side casually and picking dirt from her boots, as though he were a comfortable floor cushion. He nosed at her gently, and she turned her face to him with a small, tired smile. “Are you alright?”

He grumbled and nodded, the locket clinking softly around his neck like a collar, and so she got up, Athos following her unsteadily. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t want to until you couldn’t argue with me.”

He growled, suddenly feeling cold and anxious though he couldn’t place why.

“The reason we’re hiding, the reason I had to get you last night-“ she began, twisting her fingers together to stop them reaching for the choker at her throat. Athos could smell fear all over her, an undercurrent of sharp, acrid scent that he did not like one bit, and he bared his teeth unconsciously against it.

“-The Cardinal changed the plan. He wants a werewolf alive- and you’re the only one left,” she added with a guilty glance at him. “He ordered me to capture you and bring you to him.”

Athos’ eared pinned back and he frowned, watching her without comprehension. The beast began to get restless, urging him to run, to flee from this place, but he planted his feet and stood, waiting for her to explain herself.

“I haven’t told him anything,” she went on quickly. “I swear, Athos. I’m not lying to you.” There was a desperate light in her eyes that he wanted to believe- indeed, couldn’t help _but_ believe, and so he huffed out a breath and let her finish.

“He wants to experiment on you- I think he wants to make more. To use you to make super soldiers, like the Red Guard. I think he’s behind them, too.” She paused, checking that he was still listening. “We need to leave Paris. Right now.”

 

 

“Ah, Milady.”

Athos smelled the intruder an instant before his voice rang out in the small space, and had already half turned to face him, snarling and savage, recognising the cloying stench of the Cardinal’s scent instantly.

“I knew you’d pull through for me,” he was saying, smiling beatifically at Anne. “And so quickly, too. I _am_ impressed. Just as we planned.”

Anne flinched, scowling. “I didn’t-“ she looked to Athos, searching his face and finding no comfort in his expression. He felt his heart lurch painfully, a tight knot of fury twisting around his lungs, making him light-headed and short of breath.

_Betrayed. She tricked me, led me here- she always was working for him, after all-_

She had brought him here to be captured? After all they had been through? He should have expected it from a Hunter. He growled at her viciously, watching her shrink from him in bitter satisfaction, and then he returned his attention to the Cardinal, who had raised a long, thin tube to his lips. Athos frowned, sniffing at it warily, and he heard Anne- _Milady_ , the Cardinal called her- shouting “No!” beside him as Richelieu blew, hard and sudden, and something flew out of the end of the tube, slamming into his shoulder. It hurt, but only like a bee sting, and he lowered his head to it, scenting at it curiously and in arrogant amusement at this ridiculous pin prick. It was a dart, small and feathered at the tip, and he frowned at it, not understanding and not unduly worried right until the moment his head started to spin and the ground fell away from underneath him as he lost consciousness. 


	15. Chapter 15

 

He awoke groggy and naked, shivering with cold as he forced his eyes open, knowing that something was wrong but not remembering what it was.

The ground underneath him was cold and hard, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position in bewildered silence before looking around.

The memory of what had happened crashed over him, sickeningly and in vivid detail, as he stared in uncomprehending, mute horror at the bars that surrounded him on all sides. He was in a cage only big enough for him to stand up in with some difficulty, all sides barred with thick, unmoving metal. He pulled himself to his feet, his stomach lurching violently and his head spinning, and grabbed at the bars, feeling their all-too real coolness under his fingers, smooth and somehow disgusting to touch.  He stared out through his cage, his eyes narrowed, and tried to understand where he was.

It was cold and damp; underground, perhaps? He could only dimly see arched pillars in the far-off glow of a few scant candles. A cellar, maybe. The air smelled thick and mossy. There were no windows that he could see; he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He only knew the gnawing in his bones was painful and urgent, and that it could not be very long before he would change again. Late afternoon, most likely. He had been out for hours.

 _That bitch,_ he thought bitterly, leaning his forehead against the cold metal and sighing out a breath that plumed in the damp air. _I should have known. The first chance she got, she betrayed me for her precious Cardinal._

It had been all she had ever wanted- to dispose of him, one way or another. He should never have trusted her, should never have let his guard down enough to actually think that perhaps-

Something niggled at him, worrying at the back of his mind.

_If she wanted to betray you, why would she try to warn you?_

And, on that note, why would she have gotten him back to the garrison safely rather than just handed him over then and there? To get him to trust her, to follow her last night? Why did she stay with him when he changed? It didn’t make sense, and if there was one thing he knew about Anne, it was that her motives _always_ made sense, even if it was from a purely selfish point of view.

He stayed silent and still for a long while, trying to process what he knew. The beast part of him recalled her scent; the fear and the arousal and the scared, fast beat of her heart could not lie. It simply knew that she was _mate_ and that as such, it would lay down its life for her. Athos was not so easily convinced, but even he could not make sense of her actions unless she had been as shocked as he was to be found by Richelieu. That scream of _“no!”_ echoed around his head.

Finally, sighing, he raised his eyes to the room he was in again. It seemed big; when he shifted, the sound of it was swallowed into the darkness. He coughed, and listened to his voice disappear hollowly. He shivered suddenly; recalling that he was naked, he scowled and rubbed at his arms to try and keep warm. Why had he been brought here? What was it Anne had said- that she thought the Cardinal wanted him to make _more_ werewolves? An army…

He had the vampires to fight in the darkness; an army of werewolves with Athos’ emotionally-activated strain of lycanthropy added to that would be unstoppable against the Spanish. Just ensure they were hungry, and perhaps anger them with torture or threats, and you would have day and night, both covered by near-immortal soldiers. The thought made him shudder in revulsion. To be used like animals, nothing more than fodder for the Spanish cannons- it was disgusting. He shook his head, weary and reeling with fury, and immediately tried to calm himself as he felt the aching in his bones surge, desperate to be released, urging him to lose control. He took in a long, slow breath.

_Not now. Not yet._

_I wonder where she is._ If he believed that she had not done this to him, then he also had to worry about what her punishment would be for failing. He hoped she had got away, had hidden herself somewhere- preferably far from Paris; Richelieu had a long reach and he did not take well to people who defied him.

-

 

“I need to see Treville,” she said, folding her arms stubbornly. “Now.”

Porthos frowned, blocking her way to the office with his own arms crossed against his chest. “Why.”

“This is absolutely not the time,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Just get your Captain. Athos’ life depends on it.” She scowled. “Unless, of course, you wish to continue arguing with me and we can all go and collect his corpse later?”

Porthos nodded up to Aramis, and she watched as he disappeared into the office.  Treville followed him back out a moment later, his face grim. He knew that if she was here, alone, it was probably serious, and so he didn’t waste time. “Where is he?” he asked, already running down the stairs and calling for horses.

The relief on her face was enough to soften even Porthos’ expression as she answered, “Follow me,” with an audible rush of breath. She swung into her saddle, waiting for the others to mount impatiently. “And Treville?” she added. “You may have some explaining to do before we get there.” She gave him a meaningful look and he nodded after a moment’s hesitation, his gaze flicking to the others.

-

 

“Athos is a werewolf?” Aramis repeated after Treville, his eyebrows raised incredulously. “Well that answers more questions than it probably should.”

“Like why his drunken rages sound like howls,” Porthos nodded with a grunt of agreement.

“And why he’s always sniffing people,” Aramis added.

“And why he’s so angry all of the time,” d’Artagnan said, but Treville sighed heavily and shook his head with wry amusement.

“That’s just Athos, I’m afraid, d’Artagnan.”

“How long have you known?” Porthos asked suspiciously.

“Since I agreed to let him join the Musketeers,” Treville answered, meeting Porthos’ gaze steadily. “He drank enough to put the biggest men down and barely felt it- a classic sign of an emotional lycanthrope trying to control their transitions. He has never,” he paused, making eye contact with them all firmly, “ _ever,_ made me regret my decision to allow him to fight for me, and I don’t want to hear any of you argue.”

“Does he know that you know?” Aramis asked, twisting around in the saddle to look at Treville properly.

“No.” He smiled, briefly and tiredly. “Athos is one of the most private men I’ve ever encountered. I would not have presumed to invade that.”

“But how did you know you could trust him?” d’Artagnan asked curiously.

“I didn’t, at first,” Treville admitted. “I thought of werewolves as nothing but mindless animals. Hunters are trained to think that. I presume it is to make our job easier to bear.” He glanced at Anne. “Some of us find out – often the hard way, with a friend, a brother, a lover - that it simply isn’t true. There are good werewolves and bad ones, because there are good people and bad ones. They are no more monsters as werewolves than they are in their own skin.” She turned away, burning with a shame she fiercely hated. She had learned the hardest way of all- dragging her feet and closing her eyes to all of the evidence suggesting otherwise, ignoring for as long as she could the simple fact that Athos was a good man- and _not_ a monster.

There was silence except for the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves.

“I made a joke about killing werewolves in front of him,” Porthos admitted, reluctantly and with guilt, after a few moments. “Wish I hadn’t.” He looked miserably down at his horse’s neck, shaking his head. “I wish he’d told us. Did he think we wouldn’t-?”

“We’ve all made those jokes, Porthos,” Aramis consoled him, trotting forward to place his hand on his lover’s shoulder. “We’ll apologise to Athos.” Porthos shot him a grateful look and Anne felt a peculiar sense of warmth spread through her. She had never bothered herself much with the Musketeers- they did their job and she hers, and Treville was the only contact she required- but their steady acceptance of their friend was…charming, almost. She grimaced, disgusted at herself for the sentiment.

“Come on,” she said, briskly, to break the moment. “We’re nearly there.” She glanced worriedly up at the sky. It was already dusk. He would have changed by now; the moon was climbing the sky, pale and shrouded by a mist of hazy, thin clouds.

 _He’ll blame me,_ she thought with a bitterness she wished she could swallow down. After all, how could she expect otherwise after all that she had done to him? _He’ll kill me._ She didn’t quite believe that, though; some primal part of him knew she was his mate. Perhaps that would save her- for a while, at least, long enough to explain herself.

 _If we get there in time at all,_ she thought grimly, glancing at the others and urging her horse on faster. Their faces were ashy and ghastly in the gloom, blurred at the edges like smudged ink.

 

 

\--

 

Athos was crammed into the cage now; the transformation had rendered his prison too small by far, and he was half-crouched, stiff and aching, every muscle trembling in mute agony. He had tried every side of the bars, slowly, painfully edging his way in a circle, but to no avail. The cage was well locked and stronger even than he was.

He smelled the cloying scent of the Cardinal’s perfume before he could see the loathsome man; could hear the delicate, clipped footfalls behind him as Richelieu approached. He bared his teeth, pinning his ears back and trying desperately to turn his head, not wanting to be caught unawares. As Richelieu came into his line of sight, he threw himself at the bars with all of his strength, ignoring the protests of his crushed body, but the cage didn’t even creak, the steel solid and unmovable.

“You _are_ a fine specimen,” Richelieu said in approval, his voice a low, sonorous purr of appreciation that made the fur at the back of Athos’ neck bristle in impotent fury. “Strong and healthy. You will make fine soldiers for France.”

Athos snarled, saliva dripping from his jaws, and wrapped his massive, clawed hands around the bars, flexing his grip in unconscious eagerness to choke the life from the Cardinal.

 _One step closer and I’ll rip you to shreds,_ he thought, in perfect harmony with his beast who wanted nothing more than to kill his over-perfumed captor, and crack the marrow from his bones.

As if reading his thoughts, Richelieu stayed easily out of his grip, folding his arms neatly over his chest and regarding him with admiration. “Yes, a fine, strong beast. Your particular situation is rather useful to us. We can keep the soldiers transformed almost indefinitely with the correct….pressure.” A faint smirk tugged at the edges of his mouth, a twitch of humour flitting across his face. “Milady informed me that the werewolf she was hunting down had emotional lycanthropy, and- well, my little plan came together rather nicely, don’t you agree?” He _was_ smirking now, and Athos shook the bars with renewed vigour.

 _I’ll kill you-no,_  he forced himself to think, to clear his mind as best as he could with the blood pounding in his ears and his wolf panicking at being trapped in such a small space. _Listen._

“With the vampires I have enlisted, our armies are cutting a swathe through the Spanish,” he was going on, and Athos thought disdainfully that it was always the moustache twirling types who liked to hear the sound of their own voice, to the point of nausea. “Our vampire citizens,” and he could not suppress the amusement in his voice, “were surprisingly accommodating of my plan once I promised them protection- and the complete eviction and destruction of rival species in Paris, of course. It’s amazing how easily the general populace can be whipped into a werewolf-fearing frenzy with the application of a few mutilated corpses. Add some vampires in positions of power in the Red Guard and other strategic places, and, well- the idiot Musketeers could barely keep up with the death toll.”

Athos had the good sense to stay silent, trying not to show any recognition. Richelieu clearly believed him little more than an animal, probably incapable of higher thought; this mistaken assumption was leading him to be careless with his plans. Athos intended to make him regret it, if he could just get _out_.

 _Maybe she will come back-_ he thought, but he shied away from that half-formed hope immediately. The best he could wish for was that she was safe and far enough away that Richelieu could not reach her, assuming his tentative trust in her was not misplaced.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, dog,” Richelieu said as a line of Red Guard filed into the room, their boots echoing in the empty space. Athos tried his hardest to control himself, but the stench of death overwhelmed his senses and he growled and bared his teeth viciously, a roar of fury escaping him. Two of the vampires held stout chains in their hands, attached to a thick, heavy leather collar. Another had a shorter chain, rolling it idly. All of them had eyes that shone fever-bright in their sunken, wasted faces, peeling strips of flesh glinting wetly in the candlelight. To Athos, the smell was unbelievable, and he pushed back against the cage in an attempt to escape it, snarling all the while.

“I’m going to unlock this cage, and you can be a good boy and stand still while we secure you,” Richelieu said, sounding almost bored. Athos felt sick at the words- what had sounded like an endearment from Anne was twisted and foul in his mouth. He knew that Richelieu didn’t even expect him to understand what he was saying, and so he kept his face blank, an animal mask of confused fear that he hoped betrayed nothing.

“Or, you can fight, and we will hurt you- and secure you regardless,” the Cardinal finished, and with a flick of his fingers, the vampires moved in towards the cage. “There are soldiers waiting, willing and ready to be given your unholy gift, willing to turn it towards the good of France instead of the slaughter of innocents.”

 _A mockery of patriotism,_ Athos thought in grim despair. _It almost makes sense. But I won’t turn anyone else into what I am._

He came out of his cage fighting, of course; as if either Athos or his beast could do anything else when given the opportunity. He took down two vampires, one with a powerful, crushing grip that tore the creature in two and the other with his jaws clamped around its skull until it caved in under the strength of his bite. Richelieu barely flinched when Athos turned his attention to him, merely gesturing to more of the vampires, hidden back in the shadows- _that explains the strength of the smell,­_ Athos thought wildly, stupidly, before he was surrounded by a crowd of the creatures, all holding heavy iron clubs in slimy, raw-pink hands.

He submitted eventually; the blows rained upon him were merciless and cruel, heavy, bludgeoning hits to his legs, his arms- anywhere unprotected that they could reach- until he was howling in agony, half-blinded by the pain and barely able to breathe. They tightened the collar around his thick neck as he struggled to get back to his feet after one particularly brutal set of hits to his knees, and then both vampires pulled back on the chains, hard, leaving Athos gasping and pinned into place as the others wound the shorter chain around his wrists. He choked and coughed and thought- _this is how she felt when I hanged her-_ in one brief, ridiculously lucid moment, sinking to his knees in stunned disbelief that this could be happening to him.


	16. Chapter 16

 

“That’s _my_ dog you’ve got there,” a cool voice cut through the haze of noise and pain in Athos’ head, a voice he knew and loved and despaired to hear. “I’ll take him back now, thank you.”

“You’re not needed here, Milady,” Richelieu said, barely glancing up. “I have everything under control.”

When he did look up, Athos followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes to try and focus on the figure in front of him. She stood calmly, her gun pointed at Richelieu’s head and- a cold shock of fear slipped down his spine- with the others beside her, swords drawn and faces grim.

 _She told them,_ he thought, panicked, and struggled anew, only to be beaten back down to his knees. Treville stepped forward. “Enough, Richelieu. This has to stop. We heard everything.”

“And if you did? Everything I am doing is for the good of France.”

“Your Red Guard are supposed to _protect_ the people!” d’Artagnan said hotly, scowling. “Not _eat_ them!”

“They will protect _France!”_ Richelieu replied, gesturing wildly at Athos. “Imagine our soldiers being able to rip the enemy apart with their _bare hands!”_

“That’s not right, and you know it,” Porthos said, disgusted.

“Does the King know about this?” Treville asked.

“Not yet,” Richelieu admitted. “I will give him the news of our glorious victory when it is realised.”

“There’s nothing glorious about slaughtering people with tortured beasts wild with pain,” Aramis snarled.  “It’s inhuman.”

“Thank you for your lesson in morality,” Richelieu spat. “But I’m afraid this is getting rather tedious. Guards.”

He gestured to the vampires clustered around Athos, and all but those essential to holding him captive scuttled towards the Musketeers, hissing. Some, the newest vampires, still drew their swords, but others, their flesh glistening and riddled with open wounds, came at them with claws and teeth bared. Athos watched in bleary, pain-filled confusion as his friends – and Anne- fought the creatures back with ruthless, brutal efficiency. He could feel his head clearing, could smell the fear pouring from the creatures in foul-smelling waves and the answering adrenaline of his friends; the air was tinted red with the scent of blood. Saliva dripped from his jaws unbidden, his stomach cramping suddenly in hunger, and he snarled silently from his position on his knees.

_Get up._

He couldn’t tell if it was him or the beast; it didn’t seem important, they were the same, they were united against this foul humiliation. He strained upwards, using one last surge of strength, abusing his bruised and beaten muscles to stagger to his feet. The vampires holding him screamed in anger and he shook himself violently, trying to dislodge them, furious and disgusted. It didn’t work; the collar and chains which held him down were strong, anchored steadily by the creatures. He roared his frustration, watching helplessly as his friends- as his _wife-_ fought off the vampires. The air was thick with conflicting scents. He could hear Anne’s short little breaths as she fought, side by side with Treville, and his whole body ached to help, to fight with them.

 _They came for me. All of them came back for me. They must know, they must not-_ It was difficult for him to reconcile what he knew of his friends with the obvious fact that regardless, they were _here_. Had she even told them who it was they were rescuing? And why did they trust her- they had no reason to suspect that she would do anything except lead them straight into a trap.

_I have to help._

_Fight,_ the helpful voice affirmed, and he deliberately relaxed all of his muscles, letting the chains go slack for long enough that the vampires dropped their guard for a precious second. As soon as he sensed their shift in concentration, he pulled, straining with everything he had and feeling the steel links slip unexpectedly through the vampires’ fingers. With a wild, exultant roar, he turned on his captors and ripped them to shreds, taking violent satisfaction in the way their rotting bodies came apart under his savage claws. Covered in gore, blood dripping from his muzzle and his chains dangling uselessly from his collar and wrists, he turned on Richelieu with his eyes blazing.

“Filthy creature,” the Cardinal spat, drawing his sword without any trace of fear.

 _He was a Hunter,_ Athos reminded himself. _Do not underestimate him._ He snarled, shaking his head and feeling the heavy collar shifting uncomfortably.

“Athos-“ he heard Anne say, but he merely flicked his ears in her direction, unwilling to look away from Richelieu. The voices of his friends were a soft murmur in the background, the taste of blood hot and bitter in his mouth.

“Athos?” Richelieu said with sudden interest, narrowing his eyes. “That explains the involvement of half of the Musketeer regiment, then. And your interest as well, Milady.” He smiled, an unpleasant grimace that was all teeth, and Athos heard Anne swearing under breath, cursing her stupidity.

“I’m sure that the King would be interested to hear that the Musketeers harbour monsters in their ranks,” Richelieu said.

“I’m sure his Majesty would be interested to hear that you have made his _own_ men into monsters,” Treville replied with a grim expression. “Hundreds- perhaps thousands- of good soldiers turned into mindless, rotting creatures, at your whim. I wonder what he would say to such disregard of his authority.”

“You could call it treason,” Aramis supplied helpfully. “Wouldn’t you say, Porthos?”

“I’d say that sounds about right.”

Richelieu paled, his jaw trembling minutely, and that was all the distraction Athos needed.  Silently he launched himself at the Cardinal, dragging him to the ground and pinning him there. Richelieu’s sword clattered uselessly to the side, skittering over the concrete, and Athos felt the man’s breath whoosh from his body in a long, surprised gasp. Athos loomed over him, snarling, his teeth inches from Richelieu’s throat and his eyes blazing.

“You understand what I‘m saying,” Richelieu wheezed, realisation washing over his face. “Don’t you?”

With a low growl, Athos nodded, the locket around his neck brushing across the Cardinal’s chest with the movement.

 _Kill,_ raged his beast, and it was so tempting to give in, so much blood under the surface of this wretched _bastard’s_ skin; he could feel the heartbeat of the human under him, could smell his terror under the rank scent of his perfume. Saliva dripped from his jaws, and he inhaled deeply, feeling Richelieu’s heart speed up even more, his chest heaving in panic and his eyes darting across Athos’ features as he looked for a way out.

There was none, and Athos opened his mouth wide, lowering his head to end this, to destroy the man once and for all. He would take pleasure in putting Richelieu down.

“Athos, no.”

He paused, his ears flicking towards the speaker but his eyes still fixed on Richelieu.

 _Kill,_ the voice said, but then, begrudgingly, _Mate._ The one voice even his inner monster was unable to ignore. Slowly, almost painfully, using all of his self-control, he tore his gaze from the Cardinal to glance up at Anne, his eyes pleading to be allowed this vengeance.

“We need him alive.” Her voice was calm, collected; the others stood silent and impassive, waiting for his choice. “If you kill him, the King will not be inclined to believe us.” She shook her head almost imperceptibly, and he could see her breath hitch, could smell the nervous energy around her as she tried to appear in control. He snarled, helplessly, his brow furrowing as he tried to make the beast understand that she was right, that he couldn’t simply destroy Richelieu and expect no repercussions to fall on him, his friends, or Anne. Richelieu twitched under him, and Athos flexed his claws against his ribcage, snarling a warning without breaking eye contact with his wife.

It was his _right_ to kill Richelieu. His honour surely demanded it. And the innocent people he had killed- or worse, made into an army of monstrous slaves- they demanded to be avenged. He bared his teeth, pinning his ears back, only holding himself back by the barest of threads- by the seed of trust she had begun to sow in him again.

“Athos,” she repeated softly, and with an angry, sudden huff of breath, he relaxed his grip on Richelieu, getting to his feet and stepping back. He didn’t see the dagger the Cardinal pulled from his boot until it was too late, a searing, stabbing pain blazing through his side with a noise like twisting leather. Roaring, he staggered, looking stupidly down at the wound which was bleeding freely, panting in pain and confusion before turning to Anne, whining low in his throat as though seeking comfort from her. She was at his side in a moment, kicking the knife from Richelieu’s hand and watching in bitter fury as the others moved in, restraining him and checking him for any other hidden weapons.

Once certain the Cardinal was no further threat, Athos went to his knees silently, pressing one huge hand to his side. He didn’t think it was life threatening, layers of muscle and fur protecting his organs better than his leather uniform ever could have, but the pain was white-hot and urgent, the stink of his blood metallic and strange in the damp air.

“Let me see,” she said, kneeling beside him and peeling his hand away, her fingers small and pale beside his own. He leaned his head against her like a faithful dog, feeling miserable and drained and somehow unable to believe that she was here and she was helping, and she absently petted the soft fur on his neck as she looked at the injury critically.

“You’ll be fine,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head before she could stop herself. As if to pretend she hadn’t, she turned her attention to the heavy collar that shackled him, her fingers working the clasp open deftly. She lowered it to the floor and began to work on his wrists, and he allowed her to- meekly, it seemed to the others.

 _How am I going to have this conversation,_ he thought, glancing up every few moments to watch his friends. _What will they think of me now?_

Finally, Richelieu suitably restrained to a pillar, the Musketeers wandered over to him, wary and wild-eyed though they made no comment. Athos smelled their fear and his heart sank. Anne remained beside him, her hand warm and comforting on his shoulder.


	17. Chapter 17

 

They stopped awkwardly a few feet from him, forming a silent semi-circle. Athos looked between them in trepidation, feeling his heart thudding painfully in his chest as they all looked at their feet, unable to make eye contact.

It was Treville who stepped forward first, marching purposefully towards Athos with an expression that brooked no argument from the others. Athos almost cringed back, awaiting the explosive anger that he was sure he deserved. He had deceived his Captain for years, had lied and pretended he was not a monster- he would be lucky if Treville only dismissed him. His eyes darted to the floor, his ears pinned back nervously.

“Athos,” Treville merely said, and wrapped his hand firmly around Athos’ neck, drawing him forward so they were pressed forehead to forehead, the great shaggy face of Athos almost comically huge compared to his Captain. Athos hardly dared to breathe, disbelief and hope curling tentatively through his heart as the warmth of his Captain’s skin seeped through his fur.

“You are a fine soldier, and a good man,” Treville said, quietly enough that only Athos and perhaps Anne could hear. “I have always known.” He gave Athos’ neck a squeeze, allowing his fingers to caress his fur reassuringly for a moment as though understanding the importance of touch to the beast.

He pulled back and Athos searched his eyes for any trace of deceit. Treville looked at him steadily, his hand still cool and calming on his neck. He nodded, and Athos made a low, grateful noise in his throat, letting out a huff of breath and feeling tension seeping out of him. Treville knew. He had known, and he had allowed Athos into the Musketeers anyway. Had let him lead men and fight under him and make friends, and he said-

_A good man._

Athos wasn’t certain if it could be true, but Treville believed it- and that was almost as good. He stood a little straighter, wincing at the spike of pain in his side, as Treville turned to the others. He couldn’t see his Captain’s expression, but he smelled like calm authority. _Alpha?_   The wolf asked, and Athos had no better answer for it than _I think so._ The idea was somehow not as strange as he had thought it might be.

Taking a quick look at Treville, Aramis stepped forward, tentatively. He couldn’t seem to look at Athos, stopping hesitantly a foot from him and scrubbing a hand nervously through his hair. “I could- take a look at that wound,” he offered, pointing. Athos turned, gratefully- it was still throbbing and he could feel blood seeping from it sluggishly. Aramis seemed to relax as soon as Athos’ teeth weren’t pointed directly at him, and Athos felt a certain wry amusement – Aramis could face down an army of soldiers, armed to the- metaphorical- teeth, and come away grinning, but one set of –admittedly large- wolf fangs and Athos could smell the sweat on him.

After a moment of fumbling in which Aramis had to tie two long strips of shirt together to make a bandage long enough to wrap around Athos’ thick torso, the wound was wrapped efficiently and Aramis sat back on his heels to admire the work. “That should do it,” he said with a touch of pride. “I’ll have to check, when you’re-“ the unspoken _human_ hung in the air between them awkwardly, and Aramis flushed, his eyes flicking to those teeth again. Athos felt a surge of frustration that he kept in check- it wasn’t Aramis’ fault. Athos had been the one to lie. It was only natural that they would be uncertain- even outright hostile, considering their job. He deserved as much. But Aramis _smelled_ like friend and the wolf was confused by the mixed signals.

Athos shut his mouth and tried to look non-threatening, feeling Anne’s fingers clench in his fur calmingly. For a moment, Aramis just looked at him strangely, and then his lips twitched in an amused smile that turned into outright laughter. “Athos, you look like a sad puppy,” he managed after a few moments, wiping at his eyes. “It’s almost charming. Would you like a stick?” Athos shot him a half-serious, indignant look, but it made Aramis laugh all the harder, and eventually had to walk away because he could barely speak, waving Porthos over in his place.

Porthos was easier than Athos had dared to hope; he came forward with a pained, worried expression and immediately apologised for making the tasteless joke about killing werewolves, twisting his hat in his hands and looking earnestly up at Athos in a way that made him ashamed he had ever doubted Porthos’ friendship.

“It wasn’t right,” he finished, scratching at his neck. “I didn’t mean-“

Athos didn’t let him finish; he drew himself up to his full, terrifying height, dwarfing even Porthos, and simply wrapped his friend into a warm embrace, laughing inside at the comically frightened expression on his face before it disappeared into his furry chest. It only took a breathless moment before Porthos relaxed, chuckling as he returned the hug and slapped Athos on the back hard enough that he felt it in his chest, solid and heavy. “I’m forgiven, then?”

Athos’ heart swelled with Porthos’ easy acceptance and he embraced him tighter, almost lifting him from the ground without realising.

“Oi,” Porthos said eventually, muffled against Athos. “I need to breathe.” Athos relaxed his grip enough for Porthos to emerge, panting and laughing and wiping hair from his mouth in an exaggerated way that made Anne snort beside him. Athos’ mouth fell open in a tongue-lolling grin and Porthos shook his head in silent amusement, eyeing him in mock-disdain. “That’s disgusting.”

It was d’Artagnan who hesitated, hanging back with a look of hurt betrayal that he couldn’t hide despite his efforts. Treville said something to him, quietly in his ear, and Athos caught the end of it- “He’s your brother, d’Artagnan. He needs you.” But d’Artagnan looked stubbornly at Treville and refused to make eye contact with Athos, and Athos frowned at him helplessly, not knowing how he could possibly make it right with the young man who he knew had worshipped him from the moment he had joined them.

“He can hardly talk,” he heard Anne mutter into his ear. “I know for a fact his father is half werewolf. Human father, werewolf mother. He doesn’t _have_ lycanthropy, and neither does your young protégé – but it could have been a close run thing.” Athos grumbled in his throat impatiently. It made no difference. D’Artagnan had been hurt.

“Just saying,” she sighed, irritably. It occurred to him that she was feeling annoyed on his behalf, and he shot her a grateful look that made her turn away, flushing red and scowling. “Don’t.”

“Just go and talk to him,” Treville hissed.

“He’s a monster.” D’Artagnan turned from them all and left the room, Aramis shouting after him to no avail. He shrugged back at Treville, who swore under his breath and then sighed, running a hand over his face. Athos sagged visibly, a hard, aching knot in his chest.

“We’ll talk to him later. For now let’s deal with Richelieu and then get out of here.”

The Cardinal proved easier than d’Artagnan. It took a threatening snarl from Athos and a well-worded verbal threat from Treville along with some rather incriminating documents Anne had stolen from his office to convince him not to inform the King of Athos’ condition. In return, the King would not need to know of the Cardinal’s wilful and, to Treville’s mind, disgusting lack of regard for the lives of his soldiers or the safety of Paris. The vampire army would be dispersed and eradicated quietly, by Musketeers, out of the King’s sight, and Richelieu could continue with his reputation intact. There was nothing more that could be done for the poor souls who had been sacrificed, but Treville would be damned if he was about to allow them to infect everyone else they encountered.

“You’re a traitor,” Richelieu spat at Anne once he was free. “And now you throw your lot in with that _animal_ and these bumbling fools?”

“I’m not sure what you expected,” she said mildly. “You hired me for my powers of deception, did you not? And that animal is my husband. My husband who currently has teeth sharper than the knife in my boot. Which would you prefer we used?”

“Don’t threaten him,” Treville said from where he was leading them out of the cellar. “It’s undignified.”

“For who?” she asked, but stopped anyway. Athos remained behind him all the way out, his hot breath a reminder on Richelieu’s shoulder.

 

They were, in fact, under a disused warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Athos discovered. The whole area stank of vampire, rank and overwhelming, and he retched violently, shuddering, his senses blinded for a moment until he managed to adjust and take shallow breaths through his mouth instead.

“Let’s go,” Treville ordered. “It’s almost dawn. We’ll drop the Cardinal off on the way- and if I hear one _word_ , one _hint_ of a word, that you have broken your promise to me, Richelieu, I swear to God I’ll let the wolf have you and turn the other way.”

“Yes, yes,” Richelieu said impatiently, grimacing. “I have no doubt you would stoop to such an inelegant solution.”

“We’ll make our own way back,” Anne said.

“What do you mean?” Treville frowned, looking between them.

“He can hardly ride,” she pointed out, “And if you’re suggesting no one will notice a seven-foot werewolf loping alongside our horses-“

“Very well.” Treville rolled his eyes at her barbed sarcasm, but Athos couldn’t see any real impatience on his face. “But go straight there. We’ll wait.”

They watched as the Musketeers rode off, Richelieu on Anne’s horse between them and looking irritable and proud. Athos turned to her, sniffing at her inquiringly and tilting his head.

“We walk,” she explained. “We can keep to the shadows that way. What. You think I’d let you run off on your own again? You can’t seem to be trusted to stay alive.”

Her casual, indifferent tone was betrayed by the warmth of her hand on his arm, the softness of her eyes before she caught herself. _We won’t get there in time if we walk- it’s nearly morning._ Athos thought for a moment before dropping to all fours beside her, rolling his powerful shoulders and looking up at her pointedly. He didn’t like to be in this position for long- his bestial form was more suited to two legs- but he could quite comfortably hunt and run on four when needed. She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw amusement slide over her features as she understood. “You want me to ride you?”

He grumbled in agreement, and she bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. “Like a pony?”

He rolled his eyes at her, snarling, and then glanced up at the quickly-lightening sky to make his point. _Just get on_.

She clambered gingerly onto his back after a moment of hesitation, settling herself so that she could cling to the thick ruff of fur at the back of his neck and shoulders for support, her heels digging into his sides. Leaning hard over him, she sucked in a delighted breath. “Ready. Though I think we should get a saddle and some stirr- _ah!_ ”

He took off running before she could finish her sentence, muscles stretching and aching as he got used to the extra weight, easing himself into a steady, rolling gait that he could comfortably keep up for miles. The wind on his face was delicious after the damp, musty air of the cellar and the foul stench of the dead, and he moved quietly through the shadows as they entered the more populated areas, his feet silent on the dirt. Her fists were clenched tight in his fur, her breath short and fast, and he could smell her- her excitement, her arousal, the leather of her belt and the gunpowder hanging from it, all of her- more clearly and closely than he could recall. It was exhilarating and wonderful, his mate so near to him that even his wolf was content to let him lead, and they slipped through the streets of Paris without incident, soon catching the scent trail of his friends and their horses. They loped through the garrison gates only minutes after the others, finding them still putting away their horses in tired silence.

Even Treville stared, open mouthed and comically weary, as Anne slid from Athos’ back with a smug expression, smoothing her clothing and her hair down as though it had been a perfectly normal ride back. Athos glared, and then looked around anxiously for d’Artagnan. _Where is he?_

 

 

 

_(Sorry for the delay, folks- I got married a couple of days ago and have been a bit busy!)_


	18. Chapter 18

 

“No,” she hissed into his ear, holding him back before he could slink off in search of d’Artagnan, his scent nowhere to be found in the garrison. “You’re going to shift back any minute now and no one needs to see that. Come with me.”

Obediently, Athos rose to two legs once more and followed her to his rooms, ignoring the varying expressions of shock and amusement on his friends’ faces at his meek acceptance of her order. He heard Porthos and Aramis laughing together and rolled his eyes, huffing out a breath. _They’re never going to take me seriously again._

 _Pack,_ the wolf supplied, and Athos was sure it meant that it didn’t matter.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Athos lowered himself to the floor, already feeling the prickly itch starting under his skin, persistent and unbearable. He growled, uncomfortable, and scratched at his arms.

“Stop that,” Anne sighed, seating herself on the edge of his bed and looking around in vague disgust at the mess of his living space. He snarled at her, on edge and tense and in pain, his whole body feeling _wrong_ and the wolf not able to fully comprehend the change as Athos could.

“Here,” she offered after a moment of irritated silence. He crawled across the floor to her, bottles rolling in his wake, the clinking painful on his sensitive ears, and pushed his head into her lap with a sigh of sheer relief as he fingers began working over his scalp. She rubbed and scratched and traced patterns in his fur, distracting him and relieving much of the tension from his head, and he let a low, pleased rumble stream from him as he felt himself relax.

 _She didn’t leave me. She didn’t betray me._ His thoughts were confused but grateful, circling themselves and stumbling against every objection he could think of.

\--

The transformation happened with brutal punctuality, his screams echoing down to the yard where Porthos, Aramis and Treville waited anxiously for their brother to return.

“And this happens every time?” Porthos asked his Captain, brow furrowed with worry.

“Yes,” Treville admitted, heavily. “It can take a terrible toll on a man.”

“Can anything be done to ease his suffering?” Aramis said, grimacing. “Surely there’s some form of potion, some medicine that can make it less-“ he gestured helplessly, and Porthos wrapped his arm around him in an attempt at comfort.

“If there was anything, I would have found it by now,” Treville said, somewhat sharper than he had intended. Aramis ducked his head.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“I just thought he was drunk and angry,” Porthos mused, glancing up to the window where Athos was still screaming.

“That too,” Treville said with a ghost of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “but no.” He placed his hands on their shoulders, leaning in, needing the physical contact to blot out the worry that always nagged at him when he heard Athos like this. He had spent many nights in silent vigil, standing in the deep shadows at the edge of the yard and staring up where Porthos was looking now, in agonies of his own as he watched and waited until all was quiet. The presence of them made it easier to bear, somehow.

“Do you think d’Artagnan will…” Aramis asked, reluctantly.

“He’d better,” Treville replied grimly, gritting his teeth. He would have choice words for the boy when he reappeared, that was certain.

“We should get some sleep,” Porthos said, glancing up at the dawn rising gold and pink over the city, his breath steaming in the chilly morning air. “I’m exhausted.” Athos’ screams reverberated around the yard, the echo louder for being in the still silence of the first light of day.

“You two go on,” Treville sighed. “I’ll stay for now. We can look for d’Artagnan when we’ve rested.”

Aramis and Porthos nodded and walked slowly  away, heads together and speaking in low voices. Treville watched them go with a vague, approving expression, before returning his attention to his charge. Leaning against a pillar, he settled in to wait.

\--

 

It was past noon by the time Athos stumbled, bleary-eyed, out of his rooms, leaving Anne lounging in bed. He was agonisingly thirsty, and he sent a cadet running to fetch him wine with a curt command that scratched his throat, raw from screaming. He fell onto the bench in the yard heavily, slumped over with his forehead pressed to the blessedly cool wood.

“How are you?”

He looked up, squinting, to find Treville standing beside him, proffering a bottle. Taking it gratefully, Athos downed half of it with one mighty gulp and wiped his mouth before answering.

“Like hell.”

“You look it,” Treville replied with a laughing exhale of breath. Athos grunted and took another drink, groaning in relief. “Are you going to look for d’Artagnan?”

Nodding, Athos finished the bottle and dropped it regretfully onto the table. “Do you know where he might have gone? I- I smelled him off in the direction of the forest, but he wouldn’t be so stupid, surely?”

“He’s a rash, impulsive boy,” Treville said gently, placing a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “It’s unlikely he was thinking clearly.”

“And Richelieu?”

“He will think carefully before betraying you, Athos. I have seen to it that anything he pins on you will ruin his own position with the King.”

There was a creak of leather behind them, and Athos turned to see Aramis and Porthos, dressed in their uniforms and smiling. “When do we set off?”

“You’re coming?”

“One for all, and all for one, right?” Aramis said gaily, slapping Athos on the back. His light tone was concealing a well of emotion that Athos could only just pick up on, but he reached out for them both instinctively, standing so that he could draw them in for an embrace.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into Porthos’ shoulder.

“Let’s go find our brother,” Porthos said in reply.

-

They rode out in companionable silence, three abreast in the afternoon sun, and Athos was starting to feel a little more like his usual self- or, more accurately, less as though he had been savagely beaten and had his throat scraped out. His thoughts strayed to everything that had happened in the last few weeks- _her_ reappearance into his world, bringing it crashing once more down around him, her deception and her seeming betrayal and her love- was it really possible? That she had loved him once, that she still could after everything they had done to each other? In the sunlight it seemed so much clearer; he had never managed to purge her from his heart, and he had never truly wished to, despite everything. He loved her- had always loved her, from the moment she caught his eye in church- and even as a monster he could not do anything but fall at her feet.

_She did not betray me._

She had come back- had brought his friends, brought all the help she could when he was taken. She fought for him, stayed with him when he was transforming, allowed him close enough that he could kill her with one swipe of his claws and bared her throat gladly for his teeth when he was so deep inside her he could barely breathe. Surely, surely they could be as it had once been – if he only _knew_ , if she would only tell him-and if he could tell _her-_

“Look,” Aramis said suddenly, pulling Athos’ thoughts from his inner turmoil. “His horse.”

It was d’Artagnan’s horse, grazing by the edge of the forest. There was no sign of d’Artagnan himself, however, and Porthos frowned. “The horse has more sense than to follow him into there.”

“Sadly,” Athos sighed, “we do not.”

They tied their own horses up with d’Artagnan’s and left them to rest in the sun while they ducked into the shaded path through the trees. The signs began immediately, warning them of the fairies and not to stray from the path. The fire pits were cooling from the night before, fresh wood already piled into them for tonight. They scanned the forest as they walked, calling d’Artagnan’s name through cupped hands.

“He’s got no sense, this boy,” Aramis grumbled as they walked.

“Do you think we’ll be able to find him?” Athos said, wondering aloud. “Will he even want to see me?”

“We’ll hold him down while you talk,” Porthos said, only half-joking.  They didn’t reply, and the silence stretched comfortably for a few moments.

“I’m sorry,” Athos began suddenly, awkwardly not looking at either of them.

“For what?” Aramis asked, surprised.

“I lied to you all. I – it was –“ he shrugged helplessly, unable to articulate what he meant.

“It doesn’t matter,” Porthos said. “We’re family, right? The Musketeers? We’ve got your back.”

“Though I rather hope you’ll protect ours, considering you can be seven feet tall and already armed,” Aramis quipped, and Athos huffed out a short bark of laughter that made him wince.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos yelled, and there was an answering cry of, “here!” from somewhere in the forest to their left. They looked at each other, groaning, and set off gingerly from the path.

“I’m going to kill him,” Porthos grunted as they picked their way through the undergrowth. “He’s going to get us all stuck in a damn fairy ring-“

“Just watch your feet,” Aramis scowled. “Don’t step in one before the fairies even _try_ to tempt you.”

Porthos snorted. “You’d get me out.”

“Don’t push your luck.”


	19. Chapter 19

 

The fairies found them before they spotted d’Artagnan, whispering and dancing around their ears, full of promises and bargains. Athos ignored them with barely a glance, flicking them away from his head with a curt, impatient gesture and a scowl. Porthos was nervy, looking around at them with his jaw clenched as though afraid to speak. Aramis, however, simply stuffed his fingers into his ears and hummed tunelessly to himself as a distraction, much to Athos’ silent irritation. His wound, though tightly bound this morning by Anne, was throbbing and itching and the long ride hadn’t helped.

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos roared again.

“Here!” D’Artagnan answered, much closer this time, and finally, stumbling through the undergrowth with fairies buzzing in their eyes, they spotted him. Aramis started laughing immediately, unable to help himself, and Porthos soon followed. Even Athos had to smile. He was sat with his knees drawn up to his chest in the middle of a slightly too small ring of huge, obscenely red mushrooms. He looked up at them with pleading eyes, flushed with embarrassment. “Don’t.”

There were fairies all around him, laughing gaily and throwing brightly coloured petals at him mockingly. He was sprinkled liberally with them, looking like a bride at a wedding and thoroughly ridiculous.

Despite d’Artagnan’s constant swiping at them, the air around him was thick and dark with fairies.

“Stop laughing,” he muttered peevishly, knocking a fairy from his shoulder. “Just get me out.”

Seeming to notice Athos for the first time, he scowled, turning away from him. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Athos shrugged wordlessly, folding his arms over his chest and waiting.

“Don’t be like that,” Aramis said soothingly. “He’s our brother, remember.”

“He’s not mine!” He looked absurdly like he might cry, and Athos wondered if perhaps he was beginning to understand. Porthos started stomping on the mushrooms, careful not to place his foot into the ring. They squelched and fell apart with wet, slick noises, the fairies becoming agitated and grabbing at Porthos’ hair, his uniform, anything their tiny, vicious hands and teeth could reach. Porthos slapped his palm against his neck, feeling one of them crunch under it, and he looked at his hand in disgust and wonder.

“Look-they _do_ have glitter for blood!” he exclaimed to Aramis, who grinned.

“Who knew?” Aramis tried to keep the fairies off Porthos as he worked, swatting at them with his hat and cutting huge swathes of them down with each sweep. The biting and the clawing just grew worse as Porthos destroyed more of the mushrooms, even Athos having to step in and keep them away as best he could, pulling his collar up to protect his neck and swearing under his breath. There was a constant buzzing of voices, entreating them to turn against Porthos and offering them riches beyond their wildest dreams, but they ignored them steadily, working to get this over with as soon as possible.

 A collective wail rose up from the tiny creatures as the last of the ring was destroyed, Aramis reaching a hand out to d’Artagnan to pull him free from a swarm of fairies who were trying to drag him back, screeching all the while. “Let’s get out of here,” Aramis suggested, and the others were all too ready to agree, crashing their way back through the forest until they reached the path, helpfully marked with a jaunty “Do not stray from the path!” sign. D’Artagnan kicked it gently on their way past, grumbling.

They didn’t speak further until they were back in the saddle, Athos turning to d’Artagnan and narrowing his eyes against the sun.

“Your father?” he asked, without preamble.

“He was human!”

“Mostly,” Athos shrugged carelessly, knowing this was the right track. “Your grandmother, though-“

“Don’t you dare-“ d’Artagnan spat, eyes flashing.

“She was just like me, wasn’t she? What happened?”

“Shut the _hell_ up!”

“Did she hurt someone? Kill someone? Your mother, perhaps?” he went on, mercilessly.

 “Not my mother-“ d’Artagnan said before he could stop himself. “She-“ he scowled, annoyed at the trick, but Porthos said gently,

“Go on,” and so he did, slowly.

“My grandfather. She killed him, and then abandoned my father. Left him outside a church with a note.” His voice was flat, sullen, fingers picking restlessly at a loose thread on his uniform as he rode.

 “What did the note say?” Athos said quietly.

“Please look after this baby. I am afraid I may hurt him. Tell him he is loved and that I’m sorry. ” He spoke the words as though they were written on his heart, heavy and painful, and Athos felt a sting of remorse at baiting him into talking. But he looked like he needed to speak, needed to unload the anger and frustration, and so he merely nodded, allowing him to continue.

“If she was afraid, she shouldn’t have left him. Shouldn’t have killed her husband. She was a _monster_ ,” he said, and finally looked at Athos. “And what makes you any different from that?”

“Perhaps it was an accident?” Aramis suggested.

“She thought she was doing the best she could for your father,” Porthos added. “Maybe it was for the best.”

Athos said nothing, knowing it wouldn’t help. D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. “She didn’t write anything else. She just disappeared. No one knows what happened except her. I only know anything because of the few documents my father was able to get hold of.”

 _I wonder if Anne would know,_ Athos thought, and sighed heavily. _She knew he had werewolf ancestry. Perhaps I should ask her._

“I am sorry I lied to you,” Athos said, carefully. “It was wrong of me. But-“ _How can I tell him I’m not a monster when I feel like I am?_ “I would never hurt you. Any of you. You-“ _you’re my pack. My family. My brothers._ “You are my friends,” he said lamely.

“How can I ever trust you?” d’Artagnan said, angry and without expression. “My grandfather trusted his wife- for years- and then she turned like a savage animal, turned on him without warning. You will do the same.”

“I can only hope that I can prove myself-“ Athos said, and then paused, remembering the same answer when asked by Treville why he wanted to join the Musketeers. “I’m sorry,” he said again, helplessly. He watched d’Artagnan ride on, slightly ahead of the group, and his heart twisted in misery, restless and aching.

“He’ll come round,” Aramis said, riding up beside Athos with Porthos doing the same on the other side. “At least he’s coming back with us. He’s just scared.”

“So am I,” Athos replied, barely above a whisper, and Porthos touched his shoulder silently while he dropped his head to his chest, defeated.


	20. Chapter 20

It took three more days and a lot of wheedling from Treville before d’Artagnan was willing to speak to Athos again. He’d spent the last few days doing his duties silently and without laughter or the characteristic optimism that they usually expected. He left the room when Athos came in and his gaze slid over him as though he were invisible when they were forced into the same space. Athos was wretched- the beast couldn’t understand why a member of his pack was avoiding him, and Athos simply could not find anything to say that wouldn’t sound hollow and meaningless to d’Artagnan.

“I found everything I could,” Anne said. “My connections aren’t quite what they once were, I’m afraid.” She handed him a sheaf of papers, dropping down to sit next to him on his bed. “It seems his grandmother was killed by a Hunter not long after she left the baby.” There was a pause as Athos tried hard to forget that Anne herself had killed dozens of werewolves, staring instead at the papers and trying to divine anything useful from them.

“There isn’t much,” he sighed, frowning.

“Hunters don’t tend to keep detailed records of their kills,” she shrugged. “It’s a job.”

“Treville said d’Artagnan agreed to talk to me. What’s the use if I have nothing to say?”

“Just eat him.”

Athos huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself. Despite her bored tone, a smile was threatening to tug at the corner of her mouth and Athos felt a rush of fierce love for her that caught him off-guard.

“You’re staring at me,” she said, looking vaguely concerned.

“Am I?” He turned back to the papers.

“Yes. It’s somehow worse when you’re human and you _still_ won’t tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Just-I’m just grateful for you.” It wasn’t adequate; was barely even scraping the surface of what he owed her, what he felt for her- but she blinked as though afraid tears might spill, and then looked away sharply.

“I lo-“ he started, hands tight on the papers and trembling minutely, but she whipped her head back around to him with her eyes blazing, so quickly that he froze with the words half-spilled from his mouth.

“Don’t.”

“But-“

“It’s time. Let’s go speak to d’Artagnan.” She left without looking back, shoulders tense and hands balled into white fists at her sides. Athos followed anxiously, frowning at the back of her head and wondering if he had said something wrong.

D’Artagnan stood sullenly with Treville, Aramis and Porthos stood close to him and clearly attempting to talk to him. They parted when Athos approached, and for a moment there was nothing but uncomfortable silence. D’Artagnan regarded him with his chin lifted stubbornly, his arms folded over his chest. With a long exhale of breath, Athos glanced at Anne and then began to speak, trying to organise his thoughts with enough clarity to be understood.

“I am ...truly sorry for your father’s pain,” he began, frowning and finding the words difficult to articulate. He was not used to speeches or flourishes of language; he left that to those better able. But this needed to be said, and he forced the words out.

“For the heartache and the confusion. Your grandmother did a terrible thing, and paid for it with her life.” He handed over the papers, watching as d’Artagnan took them in slow, confused fingers and read through them with his eyebrows knotting and his breath held. “I should have been killed too. My wife should have put me down when she had the chance- it was her duty- and yet, here I am. In the last few months, she could, and probably should, have killed me a dozen times or more, with justification. And yet, here I am. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry for everything you thought about me being wrong. But...I cannot apologise for what- for _who_ \- I am. I cannot choose to be anything else. None of us can, no matter how hard we try to force ourselves into the mould other people want for us.” He paused, swallowed thickly, and finished, feeling foolish and desperate. “I am a werewolf, d’Artagnan; but- I hope- I’m your brother, too. If you cannot work alongside me, I’ll leave tomorrow.”

He felt Anne flinch beside him, a moment before Porthos and Aramis understood his words and looked at each other in alarm. Treville opened his mouth to speak and seemingly thought better of it, instead looking over Athos’ shoulder in grim, sad silence.   

Athos held his breath while d’Artagnan’s eyes widened in realisation, locking with his own. The wolf in Athos was restless, wanting to reaffirm his pack as whole, unbroken, _right,_ but Athos stood silent and still, waiting for d’Artagnan’s decision to decide his own fate. The only noise was his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the dull thud of a horse being shod somewhere across the yard.

 

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan’s face crumpled suddenly like a little boy’s, his bottom lip quivering. He glanced at the papers in his hands, and, scowling, ripped them in two before tossing them to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

He hesitated, rocking on the balls of his feet for a long moment, uncertain, and then in a breathless rush, he flung himself at Athos, wrapping his arms around him in a crushing embrace that left Athos gasping for breath and wincing. “Mind the stab wound,” he managed, breathlessly, but he returned the hug tightly anyway, pressing a kiss to the top of d’Artagnan’s head like a child.

 _Pack_ , rumbled the wolf approvingly, as Aramis and Porthos both placed their hands on Athos’ shoulders. For the first time in what felt like forever, Athos’ soul felt still and calm as a glassy lake.

 

Clearing his throat, Treville said, roughly, “Well, now that you’ve all seen some sense, there is some _work_ to be done. I’m not paying you to hug it out.”

“Sorry, Captain,” d’Artagnan said, pulling back abruptly and sniffing. “What work?”

“Zombies again,” Treville answered with obvious relish. “Check all of the entrances.” The collective groan that echoed his words made him smile a little more smugly than Athos would have enjoyed.

“Are you coming?” Athos asked Anne, turning to her as the others broke away to mount up. As always, he was sucked in by her, drawn to her inexorably as though everything else was distant and unimportant.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I have something to discuss with Treville.”

“Milady?” Treville asked, stepping towards her.

Bewildered, Athos nodded, watching them leave for Treville’s office with their heads together, Treville nodding seriously at something she was saying.

“Come on, there’s a good dog,” Aramis called to him cheerfully with a good natured smile, and Athos turned, giving them a half-hearted scowl as he hurried over to his horse.

“Just because I’m staying does not mean the dog jokes have to start,” he grumbled as he pulled himself into the saddle, tipping the brim of his hat forward to hide his amused half smile.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know it's been 5 months but hear me out...  
> Okay I have no excuse, really. I had issues at work and have a new job and have been pretty stressed, but here's the next one. Thanks to everyone who has still been leaving kudos regardless <3

 

Three days later, dripping with sewage, exhausted, and with their uniforms plastered unpleasantly to them, the Musketeers rode back to the garrison in comfortable silence. Athos in particular was relishing the return of the easy friendship, unable still to believe entirely in their trust but overwhelmed with an uncomfortable, quiet gratitude nonetheless.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Treville said, meeting them at the gate. “You have another job.”

“Oh, come _on,”_ Porthos grunted, sliding out of the saddle with a wet sucking sound. “I’m covered in shit.”

“It’s _your_ fault that you _have_ another job,” Treville said cryptically. “Get changed and meet me back here.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Porthos shrugged as they walked off across the yard, leaving wet footprints in their wake. “I dunno, Aramis. I haven’t done anything.”

D’Artagnan squelched away sighing and shaking his head like a dog- as usual, he’d been given the worst jobs and he was splattered in zombie offal as well as sewage. But Athos stood still, wet uniform ignored, and looked around for his wife, fighting a rising wave of panic that she would be gone.

“Your rooms,” Treville said eventually, after watching him struggle silently for a minute. “She hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Nodding, Athos swallowed the lump in his throat and took in a deep breath to steady his heartbeat. _Idiot. Why would she have gone? But what was she talking to the Captain about?_

“Anne?” he called unnecessarily as he opened the door.

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up from where she was cleaning her pistol, her weapons spread out on the table and her face smudged with gunpowder. He watched in pleased silence for a moment as her hands worked deftly over the gun.

“Did you want me?” she asked after the silence stretched taut, looking up at him with her cloth paused in mid air and a curious look in her eyes.

 _Usually._ “Sorry. I wondered if you were here.”

“As opposed to?” she sighed, continuing her work. “You smell terrible, Athos. Go and have a bath or something if you’re just going to stand there staring,”

“Can’t,” he grunted. “Have to work again. Need to change.”

“You smell better when you’re a wolf,” she complained.

“Zombies aren't known for their personal hygiene,” he retorted.

“Neither, apparently, are you.”

He undressed and tossed his clothes outside the door before rummaging around for his spare uniform. It was older and patched, the leather soft and worn, but it was at least clean and it didn’t stink like zombie guts and shit. Trying to sound casual while he dressed again, he asked, “What did you and Treville talk about?”

“I’m marrying him,” she said with such calm authority that Athos’ heart lurched for a moment before he realised that was ridiculous. Scowling, he turned to her and was irritated and amused to see her stony-faced expression melt into a wicked smile as she glanced up from her cleaning.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, come on. Like you believed me.”

“Well, no-“

“Oh, you _did?_ For how long? That’s delightful.”

“Shut up,” he growled, leaning his back against the door. “What did you talk about with the Captain?”

“Nothing,” Anne shrugged, turning back to her task. “Work. Whether he needed a Hunter’s expertise around the garrison, that sort of thing.”

“You’re working for us?”

“With. Not for. I’m not about to don your ridiculous uniform- did you realise you’re half dressed, by the way- and fight the good fight, all for one and the rest. I just- thought I might as well stay to make sure you don’t go rogue and kill everyone.” She paused. “ I’m going to be away for a week, perhaps more. I’ve got a delivery to collect for Treville. But then, yes, I’ll be back.”

Athos dressed as though in a dream, feeling light-headed and giddy. _She’s staying?_ His wolf stirred a little, Athos feeling the press of its consciousness at the back of his mind, and it felt content and calm and completely unsurprised. Anne watched him in amused silence, her pistol temporarily forgotten. “Are you quite well?”

“Yes,” he said, blinking and looking at her properly, a slow half-smile on his face. With a sudden surge of feeling, he said, “I lov-“ but she went white as a sheet, clattering to her feet and almost knocking the chair out from underneath her.

“Stop-“ she said, breathless and shaking.

“But why?”

_How do I tell him that those words scare me more than any monster ever could? That the last time he said them - and meant it- we were young and perfect and golden and thought we had forever. That I think he means them again now and I wonder if the words are cursed to doom us; if he says them and if I say it back, will this trembling, tentative happiness I’ve found again shatter around us? I can’t. Not now._

So instead, and to sate her curiosity, she asked, “Do you think I should have?”

“What?” he asked, confused by the sudden switch.

“Killed you. When I had the chance.”

“It was your duty,” he said evasively, doing up the last button and staring at the floor resolutely. “I could not have blamed you for it.”

“You and your _duty._ You seemed able to blame me at the time.”

“Did he really try to-?“ Athos said, raising his eyes with dread to her face, feeling suddenly shaky and dry-mouthed at what he would find in her expression. He forced the question out anyway, feeling it bitter on his tongue. “...force you?”

“Yes,” she replied without flinching, jaw set firmly and her eyes daring him to disbelieve her again. “Why would I lie about it, after all this time?”

Miserably, he nodded, turning to open the door and hesitating in the threshold.

“Yes, you should have,” he said without looking back at her.

-

Treville gave them directions for a three-day ride without further comment, and sent them on their way with some suspicious equipment that Athos didn’t like the look of much. Ropes, hooks, chains- and a cart that contained only a huge, heavy barrel of water.

He said nothing of it to the others, too busy mulling over his last conversation with Anne to pay attention to their banter. He was finally being forced to come to terms with the fact that everything he had done, all the years he had spent in hatred and agony and useless, wasted anger, was his own fault. She hadn't lied, and he had behaved abominably. And yet- here she was, and she was staying. Despite everything. And the worst part was that he had _known_ that- somewhere, all along, he had suspected she hadn't lied to him at all.

But why wouldn't she let him say those words- the ones that rattled around his bones, that wanted to surge from his mouth every time he looked at her. I love you. He had spent years thinking it would never spill from him again, years wondering if he was even worthy of saying that to anyone, years dreaming of golden fields and shining moments and “I love you” gasped between laughter and kisses. And she didn't want to hear it.

 _Or is it that she can't hear it- not yet, anyway,_ he wondered suddenly, almost pulling up his horse at the realisation. _Maybe, with time--_

 _Mate,_ he felt at the back of his mind, and smiled. Indeed. He would apologise for everything when he got home; would explain himself and thank her properly for coming back to rescue him- she deserved that, surely, after everything they had gone through. Perhaps then-

-

“What the bloody hell is _that?”_ roared Porthos from somewhere in front of him, and Athos glanced up sharply, instantly alert and smelling smoke that he had been ignoring. The wolf recoiled inside him, instinctively afraid of the smell of fire, but Athos held it in check, scanning the treeline until he saw what Porthos was swearing about- a huge pillar of smoke and ash, flame licking underneath it in a terrifying, vortex-like swirl, trees engulfed in bright orange fire and burning quickly.

“It's fire, Porthos,” Aramis said dryly.

“I know that, you dolt- but what _made_ it?”

“That is where our directions lead,” Athos announced with a resigned sigh, spurring his horse to catch up with the others. “So I suspect Treville might know what it is.”

“We're riding _towards_ that?” d'Artagnan said with a gulp. “Is it just me, or does that seem like a bad idea?”

Porthos grunted in agreement but turned his horse towards it anyway.

“Well, at the very least, we know what the water is for,” Aramis said, inclining his head towards the cart full of it. “Though I hardly think it will put out this entire forest if it catches.”

They rode closer in uncomfortable silence, the smell of smoke becoming thicker and making the horses whinny nervously, kept under control only by the Musketeers' gentle handling and calming words. They tied their scarves around their faces against the stink of it, narrowing their watering eyes to slits as they pushed on grimly, coughing and swearing under their breath.

Suddenly, above the din of creaking and popping wood, the whoosh of flame and the sound of terrified animals fleeing to safety, there was a loud, earth-trembling roar that made the ground under them vibrate with its power, followed by another rush of flame above the trees. They all stopped in their tracks, staring at each other in growing alarm.

“Ah,” Porthos said sheepishly, pulling his scarf down to glance back at the others. “I think I know what it is.” He paused, scratching at his beard in silence, not meeting their eyes. “And it _may_ be my fault.”

-

 


	22. Chapter 22

“ _That_ dragon?” Aramis said, despairingly. He scrubbed his hand over his soot-streaked face and gave Porthos a look of such utter resignation that even Athos smiled.

“I think so.”

“Porthos.”

“Treville told me to just release him somewhere out of the way.”

D'Artagnan looked confused. “What dragon?”

“Porthos' _pet_ dragon,” Athos said, hiding his amusement. “I suspect it may have grown-”

There was another deafening roar from behind the trees.

“-a little.”

Porthos had the good grace to look abashed while Aramis continued to shake his head at him.

“He was only little,” he started to explain. “I thought it would be fine.”

Without comment, Athos began to ride again, coaxing his horse into the path through the trees. “Come on,” he called back over his shoulder. “Let's go see if he remembers his papa.”

Aramis hadn't finished berating Porthos yet, and Athos heard them arguing quietly as they weaved their way into the woods towards the noise and the smoke.

“I doubt he meant release it this close to civilisation.”

“I thought it was far enough away-”

“Porthos, there are _farms_ here. We just rode through six fields of sheep. No wonder the dragon outstayed its welcome here, it's like a picnic.”

“Easy,” Athos murmured to his horse, touching his neck lightly as the animal began to snort in fear, eyes rolling. “That's it, come on, a little more.”

The trees thinned out into a clearing that was only partially natural, many huge, broken trunks lying discarded on the floor and several others burning brightly at the edges of the treeline, crackling and hissing as they blazed. The Musketeers slid from their horses and picked up the ropes and chains from the carts before approaching warily, silent and watchful. They hadn't dealt with a full size dragon in years- they were simply too rare in the city to be much of an issue. Not a lot of space for an adult dragon to nest, or even to hide, when it was surrounded by humans and buildings on all sides.

“Oh, _shit_ -” Athos heard d'Artagnan breathe beside him as they got their first look at the dragon. Their whole bodies vibrated with every step the huge creature took, each impact a mini earthquake that set their teeth rattling in their heads. It was bigger even than Athos had assumed; a giant shimmering creature of green and gold, a far cry from the fat, dog-sized animal Porthos had adopted. Its head shone in the light of his fire, wickedly curved horns gleaming gold in the flames. A magnificent beast, no doubt of it- but one far too close to humanity to be allowed to stay any longer. The ground around it was littered with the carcasses of sheep and cows, bones strewn across the grass everywhere you looked- no human remains, though, Athos noted gratefully. In general, dragons didn't eat people unless they were provoked or starving- and this one had been fattened nicely on farm animals, tucked away out of sight in these trees until now when it was simply too big to ignore.

He glanced at Porthos and rolled his eyes silently, amused- Porthos was staring in open mouthed awe at his one-time pet, his eyes gleaming in pride. He looked almost like he might cry. Aramis, at his side, had given up telling him off in favour of staring in open mouthed horror.

“Are we ready?” Athos asked, and they all dragged their attention to him with obvious reluctance. D'Artagnan looked pale and as though he might faint, which seemed a reasonable reaction to his first dragon.

“We're not going to kill him, are we?” Porthos said, worriedly.

“Not if we can help it,” Aramis reassured him. “Right?”

“Right,” Athos replied _,_ not exactly meaning it.

They stepped out into the view of the dragon, holding ropes at the ready and fanning out in an attempt to surround the creature. It looked down at them and snorted smoke from its nostrils- wider apart than Athos' shoulders- indignantly, its head curving down towards them in annoyance at being disturbed.

“Get ready!” Athos shouted, the dragon tilting its head sideways at the sudden noise. “Now!”

Aramis and Athos threw ropes, arcing over the beast's neck from opposite sides to where d'Artagnan and Porthos stood waiting to catch them.

“Pull!”

They heaved on the ropes, all four of them sweating at the exertion it took just to lower the dragon's head as it resisted the pressure, growling and snorting flame fruitlessly between them. It hit the floor with a deafening thud, claws scrambling for purchase and churning soil and brush up like a plough, its tail swiping left and right and knocking down a tree in its path.

“This isn't going to work,” Athos muttered to himself, realising just how strong this animal was, every muscle straining. He could feel his wolf trying to come forward, trying to lend its strength to his, but he would _not_ transform here, not now, and so he pushed it back viciously. “This isn't going to work!” he shouted across at the others. The dragon bellowed in frustration, heaving itself up and almost pulling d'Artagnan with it.“Porthos! Talk to it!”

“What the hell do you want me to say? Ask about the weather?” he yelled back.

“Did you give it a name? Anything, Porthos, just try to get it to remember you!”

“All right!” There was a moment of taut, embarrassed silence from Porthos' side, and then Athos heard, “Princess? It's me. Easy now, boy, it's just me.”

“Princess?” Aramis said, trying very hard not to let the rope go in sheer amusement. “You called _him_ Princess?”

“I thought he was a girl at first,” Porthos grunted. “It just kind of stuck.”

“Stop bickering and try again,” Athos shouted.

“Princess?” Porthos tried again. Aramis snickered.

The dragon- Princess- twisted its head as much as the ropes allowed, gazing at Porthos through gold-rimmed, curious eyes.

“That's it, boy,” Porthos encouraged. “Remember me? I found you. When you were just a pup.”

Princess grumbled softly in its throat, huffing out a slow smoke ring.

“It's working!” Athos yelled, feeling the ropes slackening against his palms.

“Good boy,” Porthos said. “You remember me, don't you? Such a good boy, Princess.”

Princess made a soft noise that sounded like a purr, and Porthos dropped his end of the rope, stepping cautiously towards the huge creature. “That's it. Good Princess. You're so big, aren't you?” The others dropped their ropes too as Porthos rubbed at a spot just under Princess' eye, making the dragon wriggle in delight and sending a tree soaring into the air with its tail. Aramis was making a manful effort not to laugh, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes watering. Athos shot him a warning glare though he too was far more amused than he should be at the sound of Porthos crooning to the giant creature. Princess' tail was thumping against the ground now, the sound a booming, shuddering crash that almost sent them sprawling every time.

 

“We can't leave him here,” Athos said, half to himself, as he watched Porthos scratching at the head ridges of his dragon who was purring in ecstasy and trying to lick the Musketeer's face. “He's going to cause too much damage. And possibly hurt someone.”

“What do you propose?” Aramis asked, leaving Porthos to his petting. “We can't hurt him, that's for sure.”

Athos shook his head, brow furrowed. “I don't know.”

“I wonder how much human speech he understands,” d'Artagnan mused. “If he can – I don't know- be made to understand commands.”

“Sit, stay, roll over?” Aramis laughed, slapping d'Artagnan on the back. “I would pay to see that.”

“I have an idea,” Athos said, suddenly, narrowing his eyes speculatively at Princess. “But Treville isn't going to like it.”

-

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

After they finished dousing the fires, they sent d'Artagnan ahead of them to warn the garrison and start to make preparations. Weary and dirty, they arrived home three days later to find Treville waiting for them at the city gates, arms folded and an expression on his face that would probably have killed them all had they not been expecting it.

“No,” he said, before they had even dismounted.

“But-”

“No.”

“He'll behave himself this time,” Porthos pleaded from his seat on the back of Princess, who was doing his best to look well behaved and polite- not an easy feat for a giant scaly creature. “I've had a word with him.”

“Oh, you've had a word with the dragon, have you,” Treville said, dripping with sarcasm. “That's alright then, come on into the city full of innocent people.”

“He won't eat anyone,” Aramis said in a considerably more confident voice than he felt. “He understands.”

“And you-” Treville rounded on Athos, who had slid from his saddle and was trying to avoid eye-contact. “-Don't think I'm not blaming you for this.”

“We didn't have a choice,” Athos mumbled. “It's Porthos' dragon. Wasn't going to hurt it.”

Treville made an exasperated noise and turned his attention back to Princess. “If you understand me, listen very carefully to me.” Princess, to his credit, tilted his head and lowered it to Treville's face-level, sniffing him curiously. Treville looked alarmed for half a second but his world-weary veneer won out and he merely sighed. “No eating people. No fire. No leaving carcasses in the yard. Do as you're told. Do you understand?”

Princess blinked his huge eyes once, slowly, and nodded, making a growling sort of croon that Treville took to be assent. “Good. If you step out of line-”

“Don't threaten him,” Porthos grunted. “He'll be fine.”

“He might turn out to be useful,” Athos dared to suggest.

“And how exactly do you think a giant fire breathing flying lizard would be _useful_ to keep around?”

“Could fight for us.”

Athos said it casually as he walked his horse past Treville, leaving the seed of the idea to germinate in his Captain's head. He heard the heavy thud of Princess' feet beginning again behind him, and smiled to himself as they began the bizarre procession through the streets of Paris towards the garrison.

Word of their arrival seemed to have spread, and the streets were lined with curious and scared people who whispered and pointed as they passed. Princess tried to sniff at them but somebody fainted and someone else screamed and it alarmed him so much that he almost took off and had to be soothed back to a calmer state by Porthos and d'Artagnan- the latter seeming to be surprisingly adept with the creature. “It's like a big, spooked horse,” he shrugged, when Athos praised him, though he flushed pink up to his ears at the compliment.

They reached the yard unmolested, and Princess squeezed through with a lot of wriggling and twisting, gouging furrows in the dirt with his claws accidentally.

“Have the preparations been made?” Athos asked Treville.

“Yes,” Treville said, looking at the damage already done with disapproving eyes. “That spare outbuilding has had the front wall entirely removed and we've put in hay already.”

“Porthos, show our guest to his quarters?” Athos called over, and nodded at the disused stables where Princess was to stay. Without the front wall, the shelter was just about big enough for the dragon to curl himself up in comfortably, which he did without too much coaxing from Porthos.

He looked ridiculous there; far too large to really exist, but exist he did. One of the Musketeers dragged a sheep carcass over to him and he ate it in two bites, blowing fleece out of his nostrils politely afterwards and nosing at the ground to lick up any blood he'd missed. Porthos watched him like a proud father.

“We should get him a collar,” Aramis smiled.

“I'm not sure anyone makes collars big enough for dragons,” Athos replied with a brief grin before turning towards his rooms. “I'm going to change.”

-

 

She was waiting for him, and she looked _guilty_. He could smell it on her, a sour-sharp tang of not _quite_ fear.

“What is it?” he asked, automatically, stopping just inside the doorway with a knot of anxious suspicion in his chest.

“Promise you won't overreact.”

“That means there's something to overreact to,” he pointed out, tersely.

“Athos-”

“What _is_ it?”

She glanced to his left, briefly, and then flicked her eyes back to his face. He followed her gaze and found himself staring at a large, steel barred cage in the corner of his room. It was easily big enough for a grown man- and, Athos thought, with a sinking feeling, -big enough for a werewolf. There was a bench bolted to the floor, and a thick, straw-filled pallet on the ground. What Athos fixated on, however, was the heavy steel collar that was shackled to the bars on a chain.

He blinked silently, exhaling loudly through his nose before he turned back to Anne. He said nothing, waiting for her explanation, teeth gritted and fists balled at his sides to combat the rising fury and the panic of the wolf, stirring and howling _trap trap trap_ in his mind.

“Listen to me,” she started, hesitantly, getting to her feet. Her fingers twisted together in miserable anxiety. “I promise, it's not what it looks like-”

“It looks like a cage,” Athos said, deceptively mildly. Anne swallowed, real fear flashing on her face before she pushed it back.

“It is,” she agreed slowly. “And I know how it looks, but -”

“It looks,” Athos continued, “like you've brought a cage to put me in like a rabid dog.”

“Only if you agree,” she said, shaking her head. “To keep everyone safe- so you don't-”

“Murder my friends?”

The awkward silence said it all. Athos nodded, once. “I see.”

“It's almost time, isn't it,” Anne continued. “I know you can feel it. This is just- so you feel safer knowing that you can't-” she paused, shrugged as though she didn't care. “It was Treville's idea. He thought you might feel better knowing that everyone was safe.”

Athos grunted, turning from her coldly. “Out.”

“What?”

“Get. Out.”

 

“Athos.”

He could smell her misery, her rising panic, could hear her heart pounding in her chest, and he knew, could _feel,_ just how close he was to losing control, to transforming, his anger and his shame and his animal fear too strong. He had to make her leave, had to keep her safe-

“ _Out!”_

She left quickly, hesitating at his shoulder for a moment before moving past, and he sank into a chair with a pained groan, clutching at his head and groping for a bottle of wine. He downed it in four burning swallows, gasping for air after it was empty and tossing it to the floor as he reached for the next.

-

By the time Treville came to find him he was in his fifth bottle, drowning and back in some semblance of control.

“It wasn't her idea,” Treville sighed, leaning against the doorframe.

“So I gather.”

“It's always your choice, Athos. You know I trust you. I would never have let you stay if I didn't. You're a good man, and you have a conscience that I know pricks you more than you admit. If you are uncertain you can control the beast, if you are in any way worried for the safety of others, you have a way to ensure it. Otherwise, you don't need to use it.”

Athos said nothing, staring stubbornly at his fingers rubbing over the wine bottle.

“You put a cage in my room.”

“I did. And I won't apologise.”

Athos nodded and got to his feet, a little unsteadily. “Thank you.” He kept his head down, unable to meet the eyes of his Captain, mind still swirling with residual shame and fear. “I'm safe now,” he added, tilting his head at the closed door. “If she wants to come back.”

Treville sighed and placed a hand affectionately on Athos' shoulder before he left.

-

 

She didn't come back that night. Athos could hardly blame her; his reaction had been probably exactly what she had feared and expected. But the next morning, he stirred himself into consciousness, head throbbing dully and the scent of her in his nostrils, and found her watching him from a safe distance, hands folded over her chest protectively.

“Good morning,” she said archly.

“Morning,” he grunted in reply, squinting up at her. “About yesterday-”

“Don't.” She sighed, seating herself at his table, the scrape of wood over flagstones excruciating to Athos' ears.

He got up slowly, groaning under his breath, and eventually he managed to sit on the edge of his bed, hair and face dripping from an unceremonious dunking in cold water.

“Better?”

“No. We need to talk.”

“Must we?”

“I don't like it any more than you,” he said, as gently as he could. “But this- us-”

The moment it was out of his mouth he stopped talking in alarm. _Us._ She felt it too, he could see from the widening of her eyes and the barely imperceptible quickening of her breathing. They had been dancing around it for so long now that to have it out in the open was shocking and utterly terrifying.

“Yes? Go on, then,” she said lightly, trying to hide the tumult of emotion he could read in her eyes.

 _My God, Athos,_ he thought furiously. _Just speak, for once in your wretched life._

“I'm sorry.” That wasn't enough; it said nothing of what he meant, but it was a beginning. He licked his dry lips, pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, and tried to string together something articulate.

“For everything. For lying to you. For every wrong I have ever done you. You never deserved it. You loved me and you have never betrayed me and I have done nothing but repay you with blood and misery. You came back for me. You could have left me in that stinking cellar to be tortured and used, and I would have deserved it, Anne, I would have deserved any death at your hands for the things I have done to you. I was a monster, and it had nothing to do with being a werewolf.” Once he started, the words spilled from him like wine, bitter and burning in his throat, drawn from him like poison that had been plaguing him for years.

“Athos-”

“Let me finish. _I love you.”_ He ignored her noise of protest. “I always have. I understand if this-” he gestured to himself, to the cage, eloquent and expansive- “is too much, too hard for you. But if you stay, you have to promise me something.”

“What?” she asked, voice trembling as if she already knew.

“If I am ever a danger to anyone. To you, or to the others, or even to a-a stablehand, you understand what you have to do?”

“Athos, please-”

“You have to kill me. It is your duty.”

“Yes, I know all about my _duty,”_ she said bitterly, and he saw tears streaking her cheeks. “As you know yours.”

He nodded, hating himself for saying it, for making her understand. “Then you swear?”

“You know I won't let you hurt them.”

“Thank you.”

“And what else, then?” she asked, her eyes too bright. “Is that all? You tell me to kill you and then what- we carry on as we have been? We fuck and we work and we barely speak, much less have a conversation that lasts more than five minutes-”

“Anne-”

“Let _me_ finish, Athos. You have _no idea_ how hard this is- to see you again, to know you for everything you are and to still- to still _want you-_ to still _love_ you even though my whole body, every moment of training I have endured, tells me to run, to kill, to put you down like some animal. To know that every single werewolf I have killed might have been like you- might have been something other than a mindless beast. It's unimaginable. And to say that I love you, out loud, felt like- like tempting fate, like it would break something, break the peace I thought I was starting to find. Like if I said it, remembered all of those moments we had before- all those years ago- it would be like it never happened. But there it is.”

He had risen to his feet somewhere after _I love you,_ the revelation thrumming through him in joyous abandon, and now he stepped towards her without hesitation. “Anne-” He reached for her, brought her into his arms and just held her to him, beast and man revelling in having her so close again, feeling her breath against his neck and her frantic pulse under his lips. She resisted for only a moment before relenting, sinking into his embrace wearily. “Athos.”

“I will use the cage,” he mumbled against her neck. “If it will make you feel safe.”

“You fool,” she replied, shaking her head minutely. “I'm perfectly safe around you."

"Not entirely," Athos grinned, biting gently at her throat and mock growling.

"I'm sure I can fight you off," she said, amused and smiling. "If the need arises." 

 

-

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

Princess ate and grew and grew some more, and the Musketeers had to expand the building he slept in to accommodate his new bulk. Porthos, of course, doted on him; scrubbing his scales, polishing his horns, crooning to him whenever he had a moment off duty. Aramis joked that he felt like a widow, but he too had fallen for the giant, placid dragon. 

“He’ll be useful in a fight,” Porthos insisted, but Treville suspected he was more likely to ask for belly rubs from the enemy than burn them to a crisp.

 

“We’re becoming a zoo,” Treville said with exasperated resignation as d’Artagnan apologetically brought a griffin to the yard one morning. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, grimacing. “I won her in a shooting contest and now she’s really attached to me. Can I keep her?”

“Why not?” Treville groaned. “It’s not like we have work to do or anything. May as well have a menagerie to look after.”

The griffin was a beauty; pearly-white iridescence on her feathers, her claws a delicate pink and her features regal and intelligent. She was also very clearly in love with d’Artagnan, which did not make Constance at all impressed.

“What have  _ you _ brought,” Treville asked Anne impatiently as he gestured d’Artagnan towards a disused barn. “A unicorn perhaps? A pegasus? A centaur?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said dryly. “I already have a dog.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself. “Good point. How is he this morning?”

“It’s time,” she said with a shrug. “So he’s even more grumpy than usual.”

“Good luck.”

 

She turned to her horse, dragging the sheep carcass from it with a grunt, and was just about to head to their rooms when Aramis came thundering into the yard, wild-eyed and with his horse foaming at the mouth.

“Treville!”

He pulled the horse to a clattering halt, not bothering to dismount. “Quickly- the Cardinal- vampires-”

“Slow down, Aramis- what is it?”

“The Cardinal is planning to attack Paris tonight with the rest of his vampire Red Guard-” Aramis gasped out.

“We killed all of the vampires,” Treville said, frowning. “It was part of the deal with Richelieu.” 

“He must have hidden some, or found a way to make more. I swear, it’s the truth. I have good informants. Nuns. They held them off at their convent a few days back, only lost one sister and killed a good two dozen.”

“I don’t doubt you. Do you know where they are now?”

“Not exactly. I heard it was underground, somewhere to the west of the city. More than half a day’s ride. The smell of them will lead us there.”

“That treacherous old bastard. How many?”

“Not many. Less than a full regiment now that the sisters have picked some off.”

Thinking for a moment, Treville glanced at Princess before dismissing him as useless. “Call the others.”

“Treville, Athos can’t-” Anne began, but Treville stopped her with a grim look. 

“He has to.”

“I’ll go get him.”

“Milady-”

“And I’m coming too.”

Treville nodded, not bothering to argue.

 

Athos appeared eventually, dressed in his uniform but looking haggard and pissed off, and stood in line with the others while Treville explained the situation. He itched and his head was buzzing, scents and sounds overwhelming to his heightening senses. 

“We’ll ride out with a small group of men,” Treville was saying. “We can’t afford to leave the garrison unprotected, we don’t know what else Richelieu has planned. Mount up, we need to go  _ now.” _

“What about Princess?” Porthos asked hopefully.

“He’ll be no good to us. Leave him sleeping. If we’re lucky he won’t burn the place down.”

 

Athos looked at Anne curiously as she got onto her horse beside him. “You’re coming?”

“Someone has to look after you.”

“But-” Athos began, frowning, and then he stopped himself, noting the raised eyebrow she was giving him.  _ She’s a Hunter, _ he reminded himself.  _ She can look after herself as well as you can. Years of training have seen to that. _ But the wolf part of him was uneasy, rumbling  _ mate _ in a worried way that made Athos hesitate before he ignored it and shrugged at her. “Good.”

 

D’Artagnan rode his new griffin proudly, her head high and her expression haughty. She did not like Athos one little bit, but was unafraid and so merely ignored him, which was fine by him. He had his own problems.

 

He rode in silence towards the back of the group of Musketeers, sweating in his uniform, his skin prickling all over and his head throbbing unpleasantly. This was going to be messy, one way or the other. Either he was going to turn and cut through hordes of vampires, or he was going to turn and attack his friends. He didn’t trust himself around them, not entirely. And then Anne, too. He could never forgive himself if he hurt any of them, but in the  midst of battle, with the smell of blood all around him, the adrenaline of the fight, what if he lost control entirely? He worried at the thought for the whole ride, unable to join in with Aramis and Porthos’ banter as they teased d’Artagnan about his new griffin’s name, which was unfortunately “Sweetpea” thanks to her previous owner. Anne left him mercifully alone, allowing him his silence.

 

The sun was already well into its descent by the time Athos finally pulled up his horse with a grimace. “Can you smell that?”

“No,” Treville said, turning in the saddle immediately. “Where?”

Athos took a few deep breaths, gagging on the sweet stench of decay. “There,” he said, pointing at a group of rocks and boulders a fair way off in the distance. “There must be a cave.”

“Why are they so far out?” Aramis wondered aloud. “If they plan to attack Paris tonight, surely they should be closer.”

“That did occur to me,” Treville admitted. “I know vampires can travel faster than humans, but it still concerns me. If they have mounts-”

“What, vampire horses?” Porthos said, looking comically worried.

“Can horses even be vampires?” d’Artagnan asked innocently.

“Yes,” they all chorused back at him, with varying expressions of remembered horror. Athos recalled that day. It had been a bloodbath- several children were murdered by what had appeared to be a herd of peacefully grazing horses that they had attempted to pet. It had been gory, the children ripped apart in front of their screaming parents and terrified onlookers before the Musketeers herded them away and dispatched the feral beasts.

“Well,” Aramis said, breaking the grim silence. “This will be fun.”

“Vampire horses,” Porthos grumbled. “That’s just not right.”

D’Artagnan had to agree.

They dismounted a fair distance from the boulders, not wanting the nervous animals to give them away. 

“I can feel it,” Athos said abruptly to Anne. “It itches.”

“It’s nearly time,” she said, glancing at the sky. “It will be fine.”

He grunted in answer, scratching at his arm irritably.

“Do we wait?” Porthos asked.

“Won’t have to wait long.” He could feel it starting to hurt- that deep ache in his bones as they protested the stretch, the strange pain in his back teeth that made his jaw hurt.

“Do you need us to leave?” Aramis said, suddenly seeming to be aware that it might be a delicate moment.

Athos looked at Anne, and then he looked around him- at his brothers, his friends.  _ Pack _ , the wolf reminded him. 

“No,” he said eventually. “But it won’t be pretty.”

“We’ll stay with you,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

 

It was easier, somehow; the silent weight of the support from his friends helped Athos to get through the transformation, steadying him as surely as Anne’s hand on his back, as her soothing words in his ear. When it was over and he lay on the grass panting and shaking, waiting for his limbs to steady enough to bear his weight, he looked up at them, worried suddenly that they would be disgusted, horrified at what they had seen- and worse, that they would see him as a monster all over again.

 

“Are you alright?” Porthos asked carefully. There was nothing on his face but love and compassion- nothing from any of them that looked or smelled like fear or hatred. Athos blinked, whining low in his throat in confusion as to how this could be.

He got to his feet slowly, feeling that delirious rush of strength filling him, aware of his muscles and his capabilities in a way his human self never could be. He could smell the undead; what had been unpleasant before was revolting now, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust, huffing out a breath. Anne was at his side, her fingers buried in the fur of his arm, and he nuzzled her reassuringly.  _ Yes, yes, I’m fine. _

Then suddenly, Porthos was beside him,reaching up to draw Athos’ forehead down to his and pressing them together. “You’re still my brother,” he said, and Athos rumbled contentedly as Aramis patted his shoulder affectionately, nodding in agreement. Treville settled for a short nod to him that spoke volumes. D’Artagnan was last, awkward but wanting to join in, and Athos reached out a massive clawed hand to pull him in for a hug. 

“All for one, eh?” d’Artagnan said, muffled against Athos’ chest. 

“Oh, please, not that again,” Anne groaned in half-feigned disdain. “Can we just kill these vampires and be done with the male bonding?”

 

They reached the cave, hidden in the boulders surprisingly well- so much so that they almost stumbled into the entrance before they’d seen it.

The stench was  _ horrifying. _ Athos gagged, hit with a wave of nausea so strong that he feared he might pass out. The others were no better, tying rags around their noses and mouths in an attempt to stave off the smell. “This is fun,” Aramis commented dryly.

Athos heard the vampires before the others; the shift of hooves on stone, the whispering chatter of their paper-dry voices. He led them through winding rock tunnels, the noises getting louder and more disturbing as they echoed around the group in never-ending circles.

 

They were just beginning to stir when Athos rounded the corner and saw them. A huge cavern opened up in front of him, and it was full of the undead monsters- including many asleep on the back of horses. Athos’ skin crawled at those creatures; skin hanging from their bones, eyes red and rolling and teeth abnormally elongated, they could only be called “horses” in the loosest sense of the word. He hated vampire horses.

“I hate vampire horses,” Porthos muttered beside him.

“Babies,” Anne sighed. 

 

There was a sudden, wild hissing, as the closest of the vampires noticed their presence. 

“Well, there goes the element of surprise,” Aramis grinned, and pushed into the now seething mass of creatures. “Come on in, the vampires are lovely.”

Porthos roared and shouldered his way into the fray to fight beside his lover, and suddenly it was chaos, the noise of battle amplified tenfold by the echoes of the cave walls. Athos found Anne in the midst of the fight and for a while they stood side by side, Athos tearing through creature after creature with vicious abandon until he was coated in their stolen blood. D’Artagnan appeared on Athos’ left side, fighting with a silent concentration that made him incredibly proud, and then he sensed Treville, Aramis and Porthos next to Anne, closing into a tight battle circle that they had used countless times in wars- outward facing, no gaps, no weak spots, Anne slipping into the formation as though born for it. Athos howled, triumphant and exultant as he watched vampire after vampire fall to their swords and teeth and claws, fighting until he was lost in battle-frenzy and bloodlust and could do nothing but rip everything in front of him apart.

“Athos!”

He lifted his head, blood dripping from his jaws, to find Aramis and Porthos struggling with a horse, its hooves huge and vicious as it reared above them, striking at their unprotected faces while they dodged and tried to find an opening for their swords.

For one terrible moment, the wolf couldn’t distinguish between friend and prey; the human part of him was terrified, sure that his worst fear was about to come true as he lunged forward towards them. 

_ Pack _ , the wolf realised as he caught their scent, sweat and blood and fear all familiar and loved, and Athos turned on the horse with savage brutality, easily avoiding its plunging hooves and thrusting his hand to the elbow into its guts, twisting and pulling them out in a bloody string. The horse screamed, jaws wide as it tried to bite Athos with those unnerving teeth, and Porthos drove his sword through the creature’s neck from the side. “Its head!” Aramis shouted, and Athos grabbed the thrashing monster’s head and twisted it off with one enormous effort.

It died instantly and silently, and Athos dropped the head to the ground carelessly, glancing at Aramis and Porthos to check they were alright before rejoining the fight at large.

 

It felt like hours later that they saw the vampires thinning. Exhausted, trembling and aching, they fought on, Athos taking more and more of the creatures on for his friends as he noticed them flagging.

“That’s it,” Treville said raggedly, finally. They looked around them, breathing hard. Even Athos was bone-weary. 

“I'm going to be sick,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“You and me both,” Aramis agreed.

“Babies,” Anne said again, but there was no real conviction in it. 

“Hopefully that's all of them,” Treville said with a frown. “We're in no shape to take on more of the bastards.”

“I'm afraid not.”

Athos growled at the sudden scent of cloying flowers, smelling more like death than anything in the cavern. He turned to face Richelieu with his teeth bared in a warning snarl,but held himself in check, muscles straining.

“I see you have your pet,” Richelieu sneered. “Shouldn't it be on a leash?”

“Pin him,” Treville said calmly, and Athos had the gratifying view of Richelieu’s face contorting in terror as he bounded forward, knocking the Cardinal onto his back and pinning him down easily with one arm. 

“It's too late,” Richelieu choked out painfully, chest heaving. “By now, Paris will be in chaos.”

Treville narrowed his eyes and looked quickly between his men. All of them stood silent and stoic, despite the exhaustion. Treville hated asking more of them. 

“I will deal with Richelieu myself,” he said. “All of you. As fast as you can. Athos is in command.” 

Athos frowned at his Captain, but Treville wasn't in the mood to argue. “ _ Go!” _

 

Athos ran beside the horses on all fours, keeping to a distance where the beasts didn't snort and roll their eyes in fear. The darkness was cool and sweet after the cave, the fresh night air delicious and exciting to his sensitive nose. Sweetpea and d’Artagan flew above them, her feathers gleaming in the moonlight like daggers. Anne rode close beside him in silence, face blood streaked and weary. Her horse was more used to his scent and barely spared him a glance.

Athos wished he could tell her how beautiful she looked, how much he loved her at that moment. He settled for giving her a wide mouthed and toothy grin as he ran, knowing how ridiculous he looked. She snorted in amusement. “I'm not tossing you a treat,” she called over the thunder of hooves.

 

-

 

They heard the roaring before they rounded the last corner.

“That's Princess!” Porthos said worriedly. “What are they doing to him?” He spurred his horse on and pulled ahead of the group, panic etched on his face.

The others caught up to him a few minutes later; he stood beside his horse, fist in the air, whooping encouragement to the large and very pissed off dragon who was spewing flame into a dark mass of writhing bodies. From the rotting stench of the burnt flesh, they had been vampires. 

 

“Kill them Princess!” Porthos bellowed, watching another gout of flame light up the outer city walls. The army hadn't even made it into Paris.

Princess roared, a low rumble that made the ground shake, and turned to see Porthos waving at him.

His roar changed to a purring croon and he took off with a deceptively slow surge of his wings, gleaming burnished gold in the firelight. “He's coming for me!” 

“Uh, is that a good thing?” Aramis questioned as the giant beast soared towards them.

“Of course!” 

Princess landed in front of his friend and, crooning, lowered his shoulder in offering. Porthos was giddy with excitement as he clambered onto his dragon’s back, grabbing onto his horns tightly as Princess took off again. 

Argos could hear him screaming - hopefully in joy, but with Porthos you never knew - as Princess flew back to the battle.

 

“He always wanted to fly on that dragon,” Aramis said proudly. 

“I'm almost jealous,” Anne mused.

“You have a werewolf.”

“But does he have wings?”

Athos growled and nudged her shoulder with his nose. 

“I'm joking.” She caressed his shaggy head reassuringly. 

“I feel left out. You all have your fancy new animals and here I am with my boring old horse.”

Aramis’ horse resented that comment, and promptly bucked him off before sauntering to stand with Porthos’.

“Or not.”

 

“Should we, you know, help?” D’Artagnan asked, stroking Sweetpea’s neck.

 

Princess appeared as if from nowhere to answer the question, swooping out of the smoke to land in front of them with a crash. Porthos leaned over his shoulder. “Aramis, get on!” He was laughing with exhilaration and covered in soot.

“Come on!” he called to the others as Princess took off again. “You're missing the fun!”

 

D’Artagnan swung back into Sweetpea’s saddle. Anne gave Athos a sideways look and smiled as he dropped to all fours again. They charged into the fray once more, following the jubilant shouts of Aramis and Porthos in the darkness in front of them. The night was punctuated only with brilliant jets of flame, the moonlight hidden by  thick black smoke, and they raced towards Paris with no real idea of what they were running into.

 

-

 

It turned out that all that was left were a few stragglers. Princess had efficiently dispatched almost all of the army, and by the time they had rounded up and killed the remaining creatures, Princess had already cleaned his scales back to polished green and gold perfection. He sat smugly with Porthos and Aramis scratching the sweet spot behind his ear.

“What a good dragon, such a brave boy,” Athos heard Porthos saying softly as he loped past them. Anne grinned at him. “What a good werewolf,” she said, mock scratching his belly. He opened his jaws wide and let them linger near her neck in feigned threat.

 

“Come on,” she said quietly, eyes dark. “Everything's done here and we have a little time before dawn.” 

Athos tilted his head at her quizzically and inhaled her scent, cock stirring as he caught the faint trace of arousal under the sweat of battle.

_ Oh _ .

“I wish you couldn't do that,” she groaned. “It’s humiliating.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

 

Epilogue

 

By the time Treville arrived at the garrison, the sun was up, cleanup was well underway, and Princess was sat in his nest with a huge cow carcass for his efforts. He crunched contemplatively on the bones as he watched the activity in the yard, accepting various words of praise as his due as each man who walked by thanked him for his service.

 

“What did I miss?” Treville asked, narrowing his eyes at Athos, now human again and looking suspiciously relaxed.

“Princess saved the day,” Athos said with a huff that was almost a laugh, arms folded over his chest. “We should get him a badge or something.”

“I told you he’d come in handy,” Porthos said smugly.

Treville scowled at him half-heartedly.

“What about the Cardinal?” D’Artagnan asked.

“I don’t think he’ll be causing any more damage for a while. He’s currently residing at His Majesty’s pleasure. I must say, his cell is  _ very _ homely.” He couldn’t resist allowing himself a small, mischievous smile, sitting down with a cup of wine while the others filled him in on the night’s events.

 

“And what about you, Milady?” he asked finally, raising an eyebrow. “Do we have the pleasure of your company from now on?”

“I seem to be needed here for the moment,” she acquiesced. “But I’m still not wearing one of those uniforms, and I work  _ with _ you, not for you.” She paused, thoughtfully. “And- it’s Anne, if you don’t mind, Captain.”

Treville inclined his head graciously. “As you wish.” He smiled. “Nice to have you on board, Anne.”

  
  


“Anne, I-” Athos said later, his mouth hot against her neck, his cock buried inside her to the hilt.

“No, wait-” she replied, and he frowned, pausing in his kisses over her throat. “Look at me when you say it?”

“I love you,” he said, drawing back to look her in the eyes. “I always have.” 

“You really do.” She looked terrified and wondering, her eyes bright and wide as she searched his face for a lie.

Athos grunted an affirmative, bracing his hands either side of her shoulders so he could watch her face while he fucked her with slow, deep strokes.

“I didn’t want to,” she confessed breathlessly, needing to say it even as she dug her nails into his back with each exquisitely torturous thrust. “I wanted to use you and leave. But I love you. All of you, man and wolf.”

“I know.”

 

-

They got Princess a collar; soft brown leather with brass studs to match Porthos and a large brass fleur-de-lys tag with his name on. He accepted it with a rather pleased air as if knowing it made him somehow one of them. Treville, though he said nothing, made arrangements for his quarters to be enlarged even more and added a hot water boiler for the winter evenings. 

 

To Athos, Treville handed a fur-wrapped package that he opened with curious interest. 

“It wouldn’t be right to have you on the field without a uniform,” was his only comment when Athos pulled out a leather pauldron, soft and supple and - more importantly- big enough for his werewolf body. The wide belts to hold it in place were strong and well-made, the embossed leather fleur-de-lys surrounded by tooled forget-me-nots. 

“Thank you,” was all Athos could say, choking back the roughness from his voice.

“It’s the least I could do for you.” Treville touched his shoulder briefly. “You’re a better man than you think, Athos- and that goes for when you’re human or wolf. I’m proud to call you a brother.”

 

“We all are,” Porthos said, ambling into earshot with Aramis and d’Artagnan. 

“I’m not,” Anne said.

“She’s not,” Porthos amended amiably.

Aramis raised his wine. 

“You’re going to do it again, aren’t you,” Anne sighed.

“We are.”

“Get it done, then.”

“She’s full of team spirit, isn’t she,” Aramis said dryly. “All for one.”

“And one for all,” the others replied, Athos nudging Anne’s shoulder in silent amusement.

“Fine, and one for all,” she groaned.

“We’ll make a Musketeer of you yet,” Treville laughed.

“Don’t threaten me.”

 

“Now,” Treville said with far too much relish. “The zombies are back in the sewers.” He smiled at the chorus of foul language which was his reply.

\----

 

 

 

 

And that's it! Done- for the moment! I want to write an actual book along the lines of "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" using this world, so perhaps one day you'll be able to buy it for real. Thank you for sticking with it for so long and for all the comments and love, I couldn't have done it without you.


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